by Max Brand
She frowned, unable to understand.
“You’re coming back!”
“Yes.”
He went to the door, then her voice stopped him:
“Johnny Alias, why are you goin’ to Hanford?”
“I’m collecting the county taxes,” said he, and passed out through the door.
Footfalls pattered after him; the door was snatched open behind him.
“Johnny!”
“So long,” said he, and went resolutely out from the house where he had left Grundy the roan tethered at the hitching rack. He had half hoped that she would follow, but she did not. He was gathering the reins before mounting, when a panting, shambling figure came up the street. It was Crawlin, worn out with effort.
“Ride hard and ride fast and don’t you come back, kid!” he urged.
“And why not come back?”
“Ain’t you heard? Ain’t you heard?”
The lips of Crawlin parted in a grin that showed his broken, yellow teeth, and his little rat eyes blazed with joy. He studied the face of the deputy.
“I’ve heard nothing. About what?”
“They got the news from Bender Creek! They got all the news! They know all about you!”
“They know all about me, eh?”
“About the gent that you killed there. Clifton was his name, wasn’t it?”
“Clifton was his name,” said the other quietly.
“They know it all. I guess that they’ll have a warrant out for your arrest pretty pronto.”
“And who’ll serve it?”
“The sheriff, of course. Would you resist it, kid? Would you resist the servin’ of it, Signal?”
“They know my name, eh?”
“Aw, they know all about you!”
“I don’t know,” said John Signal. “I might resist arrest, I might not. If I make up my mind in time,” he added, “I’ll let you know, Crawlin, so that you can be there to see the fight!”
He swung into the saddle. Crawlin clung to a stirrup leather. He was wheezing and gasping with excitement.
“All right. You let me know. I tell you what, Signal, I always been your friend. I never seen any man that give the town so much good shows in such a short time! I’m your friend. You remember that, will you?”
“I’ll never forget,” said the boy. And he rode out from Monument and took the western road.
There were ten long miles, up and down, between Monument and Hanford village; but the roan covered them in less than an hour, and the sun was hardly above the horizon when he went over the brow of the last hill and looked down into the hollow.
There could not have been a more peaceful place, in seeming, in the world. It was a pleasant pasture land, coming down smoothly from the hills all around and cut in two by a small stream that flowed with arrowy straightness across it. Willows and poplars edged the stream. Bigger and more permanent trees grew in groups, here and there, almost screening the houses from view. And of those houses he made out a small cluster of half a dozen which was evidently Hanford proper, while half a dozen more sat here and there, deeply embowered in covert.
He took the first road to the left, and at the second bending he found himself looking up a gentle slope toward what seemed to be a great white barn, surrounded by lofty trees. From one side of the barn a chimney arose, and from the chimney poured thick puffs of white smoke. That, according to the description of Polly, must be the residence of the great Colter.
He went straight up to the place. There was no real thought in his mind, except to go forward mechanically with the duty which had been placed in his hands. He would go in among the men and read out the list of names of the defaulting tax payers. Henry Colter himself was one. Mentor was another. He would know those two faces, at least! And if he could collect from a single man in Hanford, he would have done far more than actually was expected from him.
He thought back bitterly to the sheriff — he who stood so strongly for law and order — and had in his own pocket some of the spoils of San Real Ca¤on!
But how to turn back, he knew not. Retreat was closed in the rear by the word which Crawlin had brought him. To go forward into the unknown he had no heart. It seemed better to enter that barn, that sprawling white barn where the outlaws nested like pigeons together, and there to come briefly to an end, in the name of the law.
In fact, the brain of young John Signal, confused and weary, could not find any solution except sheer action. So he bore straight up to the side of the barn from which the chimney arose, dismounted, and, without announcing his arrival with a knock, he pulled open the door and stepped inside.
He had left his rifle in the saddle holster. He had with him only the long Colt which weighted down his right leg, and in his left hand he carried the envelope which was filled with information, about delinquents in taxes.
So he stepped into the interior of the barn, and there paused, slowly pushing the door shut behind him, for he saw that he had dropped headlong, as it were, into a nest of hornets. The very first picture that rose before his eyes was the long white, divided beard of Dad Bone.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THEY WERE ALL there, all the heads of the Bone power, which so long had ruled the land. Besides the father of the family, he saw Joe Klaus, and the scarred face of Mentor, and Charlie Bone, with a bandage around his head, where the rifle had struck when it was shot out of his hands by Signal’s bullet the day before. There was Langley, too, with his long, hard face, and others of whom he knew nothing. All together, there were nine men seated in the long, low room which served as bunkhouse, dining room, living room, kitchen. On a table by the stove the soiled tinware of the breakfast was piled in confusion, and around another table the crowd sat as in conference. They turned their heads toward the deputy as he entered and closed the door behind him. Old Bone said in a matter-of-fact voice:
“You name the devil; up he jumps! Here’s our gent now come askin’ for trouble. Have you got any to spare for him, boys?”
This remark brought no verbal answer, but Langley stood up from his chair with a drawn Colt in his hand, ready. And Joe Klaus picked a sawed-off shotgun from the floor.
“What you want?” barked old man Bone in another tone.
“I’m out here to collect the county taxes,” said the deputy sheriff, “or else to serve notice on a good many of you. You, Bone, and you, Mentor, and you Klaus, I have all your names down here and the sums you owe.”
This remark caused them to open their eyes at him.
“It’s a trap,” said Langley hastily. “He’s probably got Ogden and twenty rifles hiding around outside the place in a circle!”
“Ogden wouldn’t be such a fool,” said Joe Klaus. “He’s got better sense. But I’ll go and look!”
He stepped through a side door which opened from the barn, and went out, rifle in hand.
Charlie Bone approached the enemy of his family with the most cheerful of smiles. He said genially:
“Twice yesterday I thought that I’d be in at the death of you, Alias, but it didn’t pan out that way. I was figuring things a day too early, it seems. And nobody can force the cards. Is that right?”
Signal smiled in turn.
“Of course that’s right,” said he. “But perhaps I’ll squeeze through today, too.”
“I like an optimist, by God,” said Charlie. “But tell me, old-timer, how come you to walk out here and step inside, same as a pig walking into a cask of salt pork?”
“The sheriff ordered me; I’ve got to march the way he says,” replied the boy.
And Charlie Bone nodded with a frown.
“You heard that?” he asked of the others. “Ogden sent him out here to collect the taxes!”
“Sure,” said Langley. “Ogden has a head on his shoulders. If he don’t expect to find the taxes, he expects to find the receipt, anyway, on this kid. Signed with guns, too! I aim to write my name in full!”
This grim banter had hardly ended when Joe Klaus returned wit
h a grin of pleasure.
“There ain’t a man near,” he said. “The fool has come out here on his own. He’ll go back by a shorter way, I’m thinking.”
“Where’s Colter?” asked Charlie Bone.
“Leave Henry out of it,” said Dad Bone. “He’s better out. They’s something between him and this young rat. There ain’t a better way of finishing off this job, I’d say, than finishing it off now.”
“You mean fair murder, out and out?” asked Signal, watching the face of the old man. And he saw that face wrinkle with utter hatred and savage meaning.
“I mean the stampin’ on the head of a snake that’s been in my house,” said Dad Bone. “I only wish to God that Jud could be here to see the finish of you. But maybe his ghost’ll know, and grin! Charlie — Doc — Joe — are you ready?”
They did not answer. There was no need to answer. They faced the deputy sheriff like a small semicircle of wolves. And Signal, glancing into those hard, bright eyes, knew that he stood one gesture from death. He stood back against the manger, bracing himself for the shock, his hand tingling with readiness to jump to his gun, but up to the last moment he kept his voice calm and fairly steady. Colter was near, it seemed, and if that was the case, then Colter must be waited for.
“This looks,” said he, “like a hand which you fellows can play through to a win.”
“We can, and we will,” said old Bone. “Talk up fair and square, kid. If you had us cornered, wouldn’t you blast the hell out of us?”
“I would,” said Signal, “but not in one lump. I’d spread the thing out. What’s the good of blowing ten fighting men to hell in one blast? There’s more fun in tackling them one by one.”
“You’d take us one by one? You lie!” said Doc Mentor, his ugly face writhing.
“A good many of you have had a shot at me,” said Signal. “There’s Langley, for instance, who took a crack at me from around the corner of the shed, when I was sitting in my room. There’s Mentor, who tried to murder me while my horse was bucking. There’s Charlie, who opened up face to face, I must say! Now, then, I don’t grudge you those chances, and if I had you cornered, I’d bring you out one by one and polish you off with my own gun.”
“You young jackass,” said old Bone. “These here is the best lot of fightin’ men in the whole West.”
It was plain that these men were all greatly irritated by the calm assumption of superiority on the part of Signal; but, since he could not win time by appealing to them in any other way, he determined to entertain them by sheer baiting.
“Fighting men! Fighting men!” sneered John Signal. “What sort of fighting men want seven to one? Fighting men! One real man like Fitz Eagan would make the pack of you run like curs!”
The gun of Doc Mentor jumped to fire — and then sank again.
“You!” went on Signal, nodding at Mentor. “You’re a fighting man, are you? Why, let the others stand aside. You and I will have it out together, peaceable and pleasant. And after I’ve dropped you, then the rest of them can finish me off! If there’s any fight or any man in you, step out and answer me to that!”
In spite of themselves, all heads turned toward Doc Mentor for a flash, and his color faded.
“I fight when fighting pays,” he growled. “And what’s the use of fighting for a sure thing?”
“The pleasure of seeing a man you hate curl up in front of your gun,” said Signal. “But I don’t need to use a gun. I can look you in the eye and see you curl up like a pack of cheap town dogs.”
“Are you going to stan’ here and listen to him?” yelled Dad Bone, waxing more savage than before. “Why waste time? There he is, and here we are! If nobody else will start, I will.”
He jerked his gun to the ready as the side door opened and Colter stepped in among them.
“Hold on,” said Charlie Bone, grasping the gun hand of his father. “Hold on. Here’s Colter. He has to have his say.”
Henry Colter, squinting so as to accustom himself to the rather dim light inside the barn, flashed one glance over this tableau and then stepped in front of his companions, facing them, and backing toward the boy, so that he covered Signal with his own body.
“This play has gone far enough,” said Colter. “You know where I stand with him. You’ve tried to snag him behind my back before. Now if you want him, take me with him!”
He was in a high passion, and he proceeded to oaths, concluding:
“Why, damn you, I’ve been your bread and butter for years, and yet you’re willing to chuck me like this! What’s the kid done to you that you should be after him like so many devils? He made you back up in front of the whole town of Monument. You want to slaughter him now because you’re afraid of him. Is that it?”
Old Bone said in a conciliatory fashion:
“Henry, you’re sayin’ more things than you realize, but we know you, old son, and we’d put up with worse than that, from you. You know why we gotta get this kid. He’s the murderer of my Jud. Ain’t that as plain as the nose on your face?”
“It was fair fighting,” said Colter. “You know it was fair. You,” he continued, turning angrily on Signal, “what in hell brought you out here? Tired of living?”
“Taxes!” croaked Doc Mentor. “He come out here to collect the taxes from us!”
“Taxes?” shouted Colter. “Is that right?”
“Ogden sent me.”
“Ogden? That’s damn hard to believe.”
“D’you think that I came for fun?”
“No,” answered Colter, scowling. “But what did Ogden want?”
“The taxes, of course.”
“Either he wanted the taxes collected or you finished! How much are those taxes?”
“Seven hundred and eighteen dollars; and the names that have to pay ’em are—”
“Never mind the names. You hear, boys? Seven hundred and eighteen dollars Ogden’s in need of. Are we gunna quit on him when he sends in a holler for help, like this? Ain’t Ogden worth more’n ten times that much to us?”
There was a muttering of agreement.
“Would he of sent out this fightin’ fool just to collect money?”
“Who else would have the nerve to ride inside of ten miles of Hanford?”
Then Colter added briskly:
“We’ll have that money out, boys. We’re all flush enough just now, I guess. Wait a minute. Here’s three hundred for my share.”
“All right,” said Charlie Bone. “I never liked the idea of snagging him by a crooked game. Let him have his fair chance to fight it out, one of these days. I’ll pony up a hundred and fifty.”
Joe Klaus followed suit. Only old Bone himself refused to contribute, but he argued no more for the head of Signal, but stood in the background and waited, his face terrible in its hatred and in its pain.
But seven hundred and eighteen dollars was counted into the hand of the deputy, who was immediately dragged outside the barn by Colter, and taken down the hillside toward Grundy.
“Kid,” said the other, “you ain’t a little touched in the head, today?”
“Things were closing in on me,” explained Signal, “and I couldn’t think of any better way out. That’s all!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THEY STOOD AT the side of Grundy, and a wind shook and fluttered the leaves of the trees above them.
“Don’t use up your luck, Alias,” said the outlaw.
“I was blue and I was down,” answered John Signal, ashamed. “I acted like a fool. But I didn’t know how to dodge, when the sheriff sent me out here. I want to ask you one thing: Is Ogden an honest man?”
Colter stared at him.
“How long you been here?”
“In Monument?”
“Yes.”
“Just two or three days.”
“And you don’t know about the sheriff?”
“No. I can’t make him out.”
“Well, son,” said Colter, “I wish you all kinds of luck, but that’s one th
ing you better find out for yourself!”
Signal mounted the saddle. He said in farewell:
“I’ve used up my luck, maybe,” said he, “but I’m afraid that I’ve used up a big chunk of your friendship, too, Colter!”
It seemed to him, as he said this, that the face of the other hardened a little, though he replied lightly enough:
“Don’t be a fool; I can always run those fellows to suit myself. You haven’t used up my friendship. It’s worth more than seven hundred and eighteen dollars. But — you really don’t figure out the sheriff?”
“No. Is he as bad as all that?”
“Bad? You go and make your own mind up about him!”
With that, he waved his hand, and the boy rode off down the valley. He went with his courage returning, his heart stronger, his spirit more high. What lay before him in Monument he could not guess, but he knew that a swirl of difficulties of all kinds was before him. All things were against him, it had seemed when he rode out from the town. Perhaps all things were against him still, but a great confidence in his fate, his fortune, now possessed him.
He made the journey back to Monument faster than he had come out from it, and jogged Grundy down the main street toward the sheriff’s office, conscious, as always, of the faces turned toward him, and that murmur of voices which had become to him the most enchanting of all music.
He was tethering the horse to the rack outside the office building when the ubiquitous Crawlin appeared before him, always in haste, always with color coming and going, always with cruel, hungry eyes.
“What you gunna do, Alias? What you gunna do?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“You ain’t gunna go upstairs, are you?”
“To the sheriff’s office?”
“You ain’t gunna go there?”
“And why not?”
“They got a man there from Bender Creek. He knows all about you! I told you that before!”
There loomed in the mind of the boy a picture of the big gray sheriff of Bender County, stern, silent, impassive as a craggy mountain.
“What sort of a looking man?”