by Max Brand
Well, I told him that I could offer the fun and a hundred dollars for two days.
“How many men do I have to kill?” said he.
“Nobody,” said I. Then I added: “Nobody, I hope.”
He nodded at me.
“You know, old son,” said he, “I told you before, and I meant it: You can have everything that I’ve got, because except for you being a white man, I’d be pushing daisies by now.”
“I don’t want you to look at it that way,” I told him. “That’s all forgotten. We’re friends, and that’s enough for that other. Make up your mind all fresh.”
“Do you need me?” said he.
“I’d like to have you, yes.”
“Then I’m with you,” said he.
Well, he was old enough to make up his own mind, even if he wasn’t old enough to vote. And I was mighty glad to have a kid like that along, all wool and a yard wide with a horse or a gun or working out a trail. He was born to the business.
That left the breed for me to tackle. And he was a different proposition.
I found him, after a good deal of inquiry, in a corner of the Thomson Brothers Saloon. He was sitting on a bench, sagging, his hat pulled down over his long, cadaverous face.
“Is he drunk?” said I to Jud Thomson.
“No. He’s only waiting for a drink,” said Jud.
I went over to him and asked him to have a drink with me. He got up, pushed back his hat until his hair came in a black shower over his greasy forehead, looked at me out of his popping, red-rimmed, puckering eyes, and came over to the bar with me.
He took about four fingers and jumped it down his throat, and held out his glass for more. Jud looked at me, I nodded, and the breed got his second shot.
“You don’t want to drink with me,” he said. “You drink ginger ale. You want me, but you don’t want me to drink with you.”
“I want to drink with you,” said I. “But I can’t go the whisky.”
“Neither can I,” said he. “But the whisky can go me. What dirty work have you got for me to do?”
I frowned at him. And he saw me frowning and didn’t care. I had a good deal of a reputation — entirely a sham, as you’ve been able to see — as a fighting man. But the breed didn’t care. I saw suddenly that he didn’t care about anything. And I understood why.
“It’s not dirty, but it’s dangerous,” said I.
“How much?” said he.
“Fifty dollars a day for two days.”
“A hundred a day,” said he.
“You’re crazy, Charlie.”
“A hundred a day,” said he.
“I don’t want you, then.”
“All right,” said he, and slouched to his corner again.
I realized then how badly I wanted him. And I looked at Jud Thomson.
Jud merely shook his head and said: “I’ll tell you what, you’ll never be able to do anything with him now. He’s got his mean streak on.”
I called after him: “You don’t even know what the job is, Charlie. You’re acting like a fool.”
He was already in his slouching position, and now he lifted his head slowly.
“Don’t call me a fool, Poker-face,” said he. “Some of the boys around here are afraid of you. But I’m not like that.”
“Quit that, Charlie!” shouted Jud Thomson. “I told you that you could sit in here if you kept your mean tongue still. You know that I told you that!”
“Yes, you told me that,” admitted the breed. “Well, I’m not hunting trouble. Only, I won’t be called a fool.”
He got up and came back and stood before me, very tall, sick to death, drooping, but never surrendering.
“I’ve taken your whisky,” he said. “I ought to listen to you — for a hundred a day.”
“I’ll pay you fifty,” said I. “You never made so much in your life.”
“Yes, I made more than that,” said he, “and I served eight years in the pen for it. However, I’ve made more than fifty a day. But what’s your idea, Poker-face?”
“You ride with me for two days. You do what I tell you on the way. That’s all.”
“You tell me to jump off a cliff, and I do it, eh?”
“Yes — if that’s the sort of a boss you think that I’ll make. Look here, Charlie. You have more sense than this. You know that I’m offering you a good thing, so why don’t you take it?”
“Maybe we shoot a lot?” said he.
“Maybe. And maybe we get shot a lot. I don’t know. We take our chances. How does it sound to you?”
“How many men?” he asked sourly.
“Four besides the pair of us.”
“Two days?” said he.
“Come on, Charlie,” said I. “You need something to take your mind off yourself.”
“You want me a lot, eh?” said he.
“I want you,” said I. “Yes, that’s true. Otherwise I wouldn’t be arguing with you.”
“I know why you want me,” said Charlie Butcher. “It’s dangerous work. Somebody’s apt to drop. Why not the half-breed? Who would care if the breed tumbled? Why, not a soul. Tell me — would you care?”
I looked back into his sneering eyes.
“No more than you would care, Charlie,” said I.
He appeared startled. He even forgot his settled sneer.
“What do you mean by that?” said he.
“You’re only around the corner from it, Charlie,” said I. “And you won’t care much when that corner is turned. I don’t know what’s the matter with you, but I guess that there’s not much more time left for you.”
That was a brutal speech, but he had fairly pulled it out of me. Now I saw, with horror, that I had been talking to a sensitive man. He straightened a little; his face grew pale and glistening as he watched me.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ve deserved that. And I’ll ride along with you, Poker-face, whenever you say!”
I told him to get his best pair of horses. I told him where to meet us, and then I went for the hotel once more and found poor Steve Cole sitting in the dusk by the window, with his head fallen back against the top of the chair he was sitting in. At first the moveless, solid outline of him shocked me, but then I saw the stir of his breast, and knew that he was breathing.
“Steve,” said I, “can you ride?”
“I’ve ridden all my life,” said he, “cross country and that sort of thing. But I’m no champion.”
“Can you shoot?”
“Yes. I’ve done a lot of hunting.”
“I don’t mean shotguns.”
“Rifles? Yes. Revolvers, too, rather recently. I’ve practiced a lot.”
“Did Stephani teach you?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. How did you guess that?”
“I don’t know. But he’s a great teacher. I know that much. Listen to me.”
“I’m listening like a convert, Jerry.”
“Get up, jump into old clothes and riding boots, and then jam a hat on your head and get ready for two days of rough riding.”
He got up without a word and began to peel off his clothes.
“What’s up?” he asked finally.
“Horses, guns, and all that sort of thing,” I told him.
“That’s all right,” said he softly.
I knew that he meant it: On that little ride which I was planning there would be one beside Charlie who cared not a whit whether he lived or died.
But I had my hands full now. I wanted to get out of the town shortly after sunset — as soon as the countryside was good and black. Then my plan was to ride briskly along that night, and get up in the Cash Hills by the dawn at the latest. That would give our horses and ourselves a whole day of rest — or nearly an entire day — before the Makerville party came through. We could scatter, watch the three possible trails that the stage might be following, and then, when it was seen, we could signal to one another.
That was the plan to commence with. And with that part we went st
raight through.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE MAKERVILLE PARTY
THIS GROWS A little complicated, so I have to explain the tactics and the strategy. The strategy was this: I marched for the Cash Hills — so called by an early prospector who did not find gold in them — and hunted till I found Maker. After stopping him if I could, I was to push on and try to get to the end of the Q. & O. branch line in time to join the colonel as a guard of honor, so to speak, on his return trip. Also, if Maker and his men got under way and suspected our plans, they might cut across our line of retreat and give us a hot reception.
The colonel, in the meantime, was to get the reserve stage which was always kept at Piegan in case the regular one was broken up. He was to get six fast horses on it, and a good driver, and with a few of the most respectable citizens, he was to go across to the end of the branch line, leaving Piegan about dawn.
That was the plan of campaign. The main battle would be, probably, between my gang and the Makerites. Everything depended on that, for a beginning. And in the ending, it would be the persuasive tongue of the colonel that would tell the story with Tracy Dixon.
I saw the colonel for farewell instructions, and he had little to say. He was nervous, of course, but cheerful. He swore that he would make me a rich man if this deal went through, and he vowed eternal friendship and confidence whether it went through or not. So I pulled out of Piegan on time, and we jogged our horses steadily through the night.
If I doubted the value of the half-breed on such a trip as this, the doubt disappeared before we were an hour out of the town. That fellow took the lead at once, and he had eyes like a cat in the dark of the night. He got us across two bad places where freshets had washed out the trail, and throughout the night he kept the lead.
I kept to my place at the tail end of the party most of the time, because in that position I could favor myself as much as possible, and the others could not see so well my various odd positions in the saddle. For I had to do everything I knew in order to make the ride less fatiguing. Even so, I could not make the ride without a long halt, and after we had gone, according to the breed, about two thirds of the way, I had the party pull up, and we made a fire and rested for at least an hour.
I wrapped myself in a blanket and lay flat. After a moment, while the other boys were chattering together and seemed in high spirits, along came a shadow and sat down beside me, and the husky voice of the breed said:
“You, also, Poker-face.”
“Also what?” said I, working to keep the weariness out of my voice.
“You will not last long, either,” said he. “I saw it in your face when you saw it in mine. And that is why I came for this little ride. But you are very tired. You had better stay here, and I’ll go on with the rest and do the work. Tell me what the work is to be.”
“No,” said I. “That’s fine of you, Charlie. But I’ll have to stay along with the others. I’m better than you think. But I have to take things by easy stages. That’s all.”
He grunted. I could not make out the words.
“Tell me, Charlie,” said I, so softly that the others could not hear, “where you were educated.”
“In college. No good telling you where. I’m no credit to it,” said he.
“You’re credit enough,” said I. “I wouldn’t have any man in the world in your place in this party.”
“That’s only because I don’t care what happens,” he suggested.
“No, it’s because you’ve got a head on your shoulders.”
“What good does it do to have a brain?” said he. “For an Indian, yes. For a white man, yes. But I’m only a breed.”
He went on trying to persuade me that I should stay behind and let him take over the direction of the party. I was amazed. I would never have dreamed that there was so much generous kindness in the make-up of that fellow. I don’t think that another soul in the world ever guessed it at the time.
When he saw that he could not move me, he grunted again, and went off by himself.
I waited there until the thumping of my weary heart was smoothed out and flowing along on a fairly steady level. Then I propped myself up, and we took to the saddles again.
I must say that the halt seemed to work out well for the horses, and we kept up a good, steady pace right through the night, and reached the Cash Hills just when the dawn was beginning to stretch a pink band around the sky line.
There we hobbled the horses and turned them out to graze, cooked a good breakfast, and then I had everybody turn in for a sleep. Perhaps it would have been wiser to post a guard, but I was confident that we were too far off any beaten track to be taken by surprise.
For my part, I had the shadow of a big boulder to shield my face, and I slept straight through until noon. I might have slept still longer, but the noise of voices wakened me, and I got up to find that I was the last of the party to be stirring.
We still had plenty of time; the Makerites could hardly be expected before the middle of the afternoon. So we cooked another meal, finished it off with coffee, and then I posted my lookouts. Before I sent them out, I explained the whole plan in detail — that is, I explained the part about stopping the Makerites. As for the scheme of the colonel, or what this deal might mean to Piegan, I said nothing. I was afraid that the thing would seem to the rest of them as foolish as it now seemed to me. For, after sleeping on it, I confess that it looked the most ridiculous thing in the world. The only reason that I kept on was because I had put my hand to the job and thoroughly committed myself.
As for my gang, they listened carefully to what I had to say. The business of stopping a party of Makerites seemed perfectly logical to all of the boys except young Steve Cole. And, of course, he was not asking questions!
As for the rest, they were willing, if I said the word, to open on any body of Makerites and shoot to kill! That I didn’t want, and I insisted over and over that not a bullet should be fired until I gave the word. And that word I fully intended never to give.
However, to get on to the event of the day.
I had three lookouts on three ridges, each of them able to signal to the others. The moment the stage was sighted, we could draw to a head and focus on it. As a matter of fact, we had to wait all through the afternoon, and it was almost too dark to see the signal before Slim Jim called us to him on the double.
The whole gang of us slipped over to his ridge, riding hard, and when we pulled up and sneaked over the crest among the boulders, we lay down flat and peered, and saw the picture for which we had been waiting.
Only, it was more of a picture than we had gambled on.
You’ve seen that Colonel Riggs and the Piegan men were willing to take a lot of chances, and do things in a big way, and spend money liberally. But the Makerites were just as ready, or even more so. I saw a specially big stage, all bright with gilding, and drawn by eight horses. And those horses had white and red plumes on their harness, and bells that jingled and tinkled and made a very sweet and far-away music, coming up through the still air of that ravine.
That was not all.
No, it was hardly more than a beginning, because before that stage, and behind it, and riding on both sides, were twenty men from Makerville, and I did not need to have second sight in order to guess that they were the keenest and bravest and hardiest men in that keen and hardy town. Through the rosy haze of the sunset light I could see that the lot of them were armed to the teeth — all the more to impress Tracy Dixon, I suppose, but, incidentally, very tough for us!
Dan Loftus was lying on his elbows close beside me, and he turned and made a long, sour face at me, muttering:
“There’s our pie. I’ll cut it, Mr. Ash, if you’ll eat a piece.”
“Yeah. I’ll eat a piece, I guess,” said I.
But I hardly meant it!
Suddenly and mightily I hoped that they would not camp in the hills, as the colonel imagined that they would.
It was only a matter of a dozen miles to the end of the branch l
ine, according to our calculations, and they might push through.
However, when I saw the gilding on that resplendent coach, I could not help shaking my head and thinking that the colonel’s guess would be the right one. They would not take rough chances with such a land ship as that!
We went along our side of the ridge, keeping pace with the caravan in the darkening ravine, and presently, as they came over the divide of the Cash Hills, they stopped. They had completed the long pull up the grade, and now there was before them an almost equally long grade swerving in gradual curves down to the end of the Q.&O. line.
There they halted. The grade was not much, but they blocked the wheels of the stage thoroughly with stones, and stripped off the splendid harness of the horses, and piled it inside the vehicle. Then that gang of men pitched camp, and they did it fast and in good style. They built up a ripping fire, and cooked on the edges of it, and it seemed to me that I could smell the coffee steaming.
We, six cold, miserably depressed fellows, waited on the backbone of the ridge and looked gloomily down at the numbers of those men, and at the extent of their preparations.
They ate their meal. We could hear the stir of their voices, sounding even farther away than the fact, and then we saw them settling down for the night. They hobbled their horses and turned them out as I had done with ours the preceding evening. But they posted an armed man to guard the great stage. The rest lay down in the brush on both sides of the road, and near to the stage.
My heart began to rise. I called Charlie aside, and I said to him: “Charlie, I’m not an expert horse thief, but it seems to me that some of us can easily drift our horses down one of these side gullies and walk along beside them among the horses of Makerville and cut those hobbles. And when that’s done, is anything easier than to send the whole herd whooping down the valley toward the end of the line?”
“Nothing is easier,” said Charlie Butcher. “But the others can attend to that. You and I, partner, have something better to fill our hands.”