Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “I won’t come down, Tom,” replied the Kid. “You’ve given me enough names. Plenty enough to suit me. Any one of them will do. I wouldn’t cramp your style, Tom, by telling you who was to play partners with you.”

  Slocum turned burning eyes from the Kid to Bud Trainor.

  “You’re number two in this party, are you?” asked Slocum.

  And Bud, with a nod, waved his hand toward the Kid, as much as to say that he had been elected by that formidable youth for whatever work lay ahead.

  “I’ll go down and find out what the boys say,” declared Slocum. “Just wait up here, will you?”

  “We’ll be here,” said the Kid, and Slocum, turning his horse, jogged quietly off down the slope.

  But Trainor kept an anxious eye fixed on his companion. Nervously Bud passed his hand under his coat to the new spring holster which was attached under the pit of his left arm. He had adopted this contrivance at the suggestion of the Kid, but still it seemed strange to him. He had practiced until the Kid declared that his time on a draw was less than it had been when pulling from the hip. Still, he was uncertain. Next, he slipped his hand down along the stock of the Winchester which, in its long holster, ran down between his right leg and the saddle. But the Kid did not seem to see these uneasy movements of his companion.

  He was too busy, it appeared, in watching the motions of the crowd of cattle which milled on the slope. Some of them lay down, their heads sinking low as though they were already far spent. These, doubtless, were the ones which had come in from a great distance, half dead with thirst and on fire with eagerness for water. Every hour they spent was bringing them closer to death. Others, again, were mixing in swirls and tangles. Some of them ran with their heads high. Others swung their horns right and left, red-eyed with the burning famine, eager to fight. And brigades of these, from time to time, surged ahead toward the fence line, where they crowded close, lifting their heads above the top strand and pressing their throats and breasts against the cruel barbs. There they hung, until the riders swept down the line and flogged them away with whips. Even whips were not enough, now and again. They had to fire blank cartridges into the faces of the poor beasts, which then milled slowly away to a short distance. The same scene was duplicated on the farther side of Hurry Creek by equal numbers of the animals.

  Over the fence, a little away from the spot where “Dolly”

  Smith had jumped his horse across, another rider now sprinted his mount toward Dolly.

  The latter turned in his saddle, reining in to meet this danger from behind.

  “Now watch Champ Dixon work,” said the Kid, laughing softly. “It’ll be worth while. He is a champ, when it comes to a job like this.”

  “Smith oughta break him in two,” said Bud Trainor, “if Dixon means fighting. Smith has got twenty pounds on him!”

  “Twenty pounds of man, and Champ is all wild cat. You see?”

  Champ Dixon leaped out of his saddle like a panther, and plunging through the air, he tackled Smith and hurled him to the ground like a stone. They rolled over and over, raising a dust, but then Dixon stood up, and Dolly Smith remained in a heap on the ground.

  “He’s broken his neck!” said Bud Trainor, in horror. “I saw his head bend back as he hit — he’s busted his neck—”

  “That won’t bother Champ Dixon any,” said the Kid. “He’s broken necks before this. Look at the strength in his hands.”

  For Champ Dixon, leaning, picked up the fallen man like a child and literally threw him across the empty saddle of Dolly’s horse, which had come back to sniff at its fallen master.

  A shout went up from the Dixon men. It roared dimly up the slope, mingled with the continual voices of Hurry Creek.

  “Gents like to see a thing like that,” said Bud Trainor. “They’ll eat out of the hollow of Dixon’s hand, after this, but how could you of knowed how all of this would happen, Kid?”

  “Oh, I know Dixon. He’s a fox, as well as a panther. Do you think that he’d let any pair of the boys come up here to fight it out? Not at all! If they were dropped, you and I could grab one of them and ride him back to the ranch house in a rush. Then we could claim that he and his partner had come out and attacked us. Malice prepense!”

  “What’s that?” asked Trainor.

  “Trouble that’s been planned ahead. On the strength of that, we probably could get the sheriff out here from Dry Creek to slap an injunction on Dixon and Shay, and spoil their whole show. That’s what I wanted — to get that crook Dixon to offer to take a first hold. Then we could have thrown him hard enough to snap his back. No, no, Bud. He’s taking Dolly back to camp, but Dolly won’t ever forgive him, and a lot of other boys will feel the same way. We’ve split that crowd into two sections. We’ve cracked the solid formation, anyway! If Dixon could only gather us in and make sure of our scalps, he’d strike soon enough. But he’ll take no chances!”

  Dixon, with his reclaimed puncher, now entered the fenced enclosure along the creek through the narrow gate which had been left there, and another shout went up from the mob.

  “Those are the ones who are willing to lick his boots,” said the Kid. “The others will hate them for it. Slow poison will work as sure as a quick one, sometimes. I’m going to start hoping!”

  A group of twenty or thirty cows, which had begun to mill aimlessly, suddenly broke and headed straight for the two of them. The Kid shouted a warning, and the Duck Hawk, as if with a sudden stroke of wings, floated well to the side of the charge. But Bud Trainor’s less electric animal barely got aside, switching its tail across the savage horns of the flanking cow.

  This mad charge went thundering on over the hill and wasted itself on nothingness. But all the animals on the slope began to toss their heads, and their eyes were red with anger.

  “They’ll settle down, pretty soon,” said the Kid. “They’ll settle down and get groggy. Before long, they’ll be too weak to stand. Oh, thirst kills ’em almost like bullets.”

  “Aye,” said Bud Trainor. “I remember once when I was making a drive with Ned Powell and Pete Lawlor, up the old Santa Fe, we found two water holes dry, one after another, and there were nine hundred head beginning to sag at the knees—”

  “Let it go!” groaned the Kid. “I don’t want to hear about it. It makes me sick, Bud. It makes my heart grip and turn over. Child murder — that’s what it is!”

  “It’s a low business,” agreed Bud.

  But he looked at his companion with wonder.

  “After all, Kid,” he could not help saying, “they ain’t your cows!”

  “What difference does that make?” asked the Kid, turning on him almost fiercely. “They’re helpless, aren’t they? And the curs who’ll take advantage of a helpless cow, or a helpless woman, or a helpless man, for that matter—”

  He stopped in the midst of his tirade, and seemed ashamed of himself. But he was so worked up by his emotion that the Duck Hawk partook of the excitement, and began to prance lightly up and down, her fetlock joints almost touching the ground, so supple was their play.

  “Hold on, Kid,” said Bud Trainor. “What’s the meaning of the three of ’em, over yonder?”

  He pointed out three riders who had left the gate and headed to the right, northward, pointing toward the rim of the hills.

  The Kid took keen note of them. Then he turned sharply about in the saddle.

  “I thought so — the old fox!” said he. And he chuckled. “What is it?” asked Bud.

  “See those four who are sneaking off through that gap where the fence isn’t finished? They’re heading south, but they aim to swing around and join hands with that bunch which is moving north, and then they’ll have us in a net!”

  He laughed, and calling to Bud not to press his horse too much, they cantered back across the hills toward the ranch house. They had barely topped the second rise of the hills, when they could see the two groups of riders, both to the right and the left, spurring their horses wildly forward, jockeying them a
nd leaning into the wind of the gallop like so many Indians.

  22. THE CHASE

  “BEAR RIGHT! BEAR right!” called the Kid at that instant.

  And Bud Trainor, his heart in his mouth, but his confidence in his wise young leader unshaken, did as he was told.

  Then a new pulse of fear came to him.

  It was plain that the Duck Hawk could drift away from this pursuit as easily as her namesake leaves a flight of sparrows behind, or shoots across the sky to overtake the lowlier fishhawk, as it rises laden from a stream or a lake. For the mare ran with her head turned a little, taking stock of the galloping horsemen to her right, and then to her left. She could dart away to safety at any moment.

  But that was not true of the gelding which Bud Trainor himself bestrode. Already they made a good long march on that day, and although the careful watering seemed to have put vigor back into the body of the horse, still the edge was taken from its early foot. It could not sprint with some of the enemy mounts.

  Above all, there to the right and north of them, a tall gray, flashing like silver and marked with darkness on the head and all four legs, was leading the others. Now it stretched away further and further, eating up the ground. Bud Trainor, watching this magnificent animal at work, groaned deeply. He could see that there was no escape for him from such a speedster.

  Why were they bearing north? Toward the south, surely, and away from that silver racer was their only chance of any escape! Seven men and seven guns would soon be opening against them!

  Then, amazed, he heard the Kid’s voice, calling: “Easy, Bud, easy does it!”

  He looked across.

  Aye, the Kid was smiling, almost laughing. Not at Trainor, not at the enemy, but for the sheer joy of the excitement.

  Trainor blinked. No matter what the Kid said about maneuvers to get the law on their side, he simply had gone out and put their heads in the lion’s mouth, and now the jaws of the lion were closing! Well enough for him, on his lightning-fast mare — but what of his companion!

  The next instant, Trainor was ashamed of the thought. Whatever else might be true about the Kid, he was not one to abandon a comrade in a pinch. But still, what was the meaning of his present laughter? And why tell him to ride more slowly?

  Yes, the Duck Hawk herself was being drawn in.

  “What’s the matter with you?” shouted Trainor, in a sudden frenzy. “Don’t you see that they’re takin’ us in the holler of their hands?”

  “They won’t take us in the hollow of their hands,” answered the Kid, calmly. “You think they’re riding the finest stuff in the world, but they’re not. That tired gelding of yours could give a beating to most of ’em, for that matter! Believe me, old son, when I say that easy does it. They’ve started behind us, and they’ve made up ground too fast. Look there!”

  Trainor, staring toward the northern trio, saw the rearmost of them suddenly stumble and almost go down.

  “That’s the pace that tells and the pace that kills,” said the Kid. “Only, that silver devil in the lead. What horse is that? What man is that? I ought to know the name of anybody who can ride like that — and keep such a horse for the riding!”

  Bud Trainor, only dimly encouraged by the stumbling of one horse — which now seemed to be running again as strongly as ever, though half a dozen lengths farther to the rear — stared ahead at that silver beauty, and then a picture flashed suddenly across his mind of a thing he had seen the year before. A rodeo, a wild crew of hard-riding punchers, of leather- handed bulldoggers, of straight shots and hard drinkers. And in the midst of all the splendid riding, one brilliant figure standing out — a silver horse which flicked the cleverest riders out of the saddle as a child snaps wet watermelon seeds from between forefinger and thumb. Such a horse — a silver beauty! And defying them, making a game of the contest, laughing at all those skilled buckaroos!

  Then, out of nowhere, a slender young man appeared, with a dark and handsome face. A very quietly dressed youth was this, who spoke very politely, and used good grammar. He wanted to ride that silver tiger, and people half laughed at him and half pitied him. But ride it he did. Rode it to a stagger, and bought it afterwards, and departed quietly, as he had come. Then, afterwards, a murmur had gone around. That murmur was ringing in his ears, now, and he shouted.

  “Kid, Kid! D’you know who that is? I tell you, it’s as bad a one as ever was made! It’s Chip Graham! It’s Chip Graham! I seen him win that hoss at the Bunting Rodeo a year back—”

  “Oh, that’s Chip Graham, is it?” said the Kid, nodding, the brightness never failing in his face. “That’s Chip, is it?”

  “I’ll swear that’s Chip. Bear south, Kid. We better bear south. We never can get away from that devil of a Chip Graham. And that hoss of his — you see — it’s faster’n the Duck Hawk, I guess!”

  “Keep your hat on,” replied the Kid.

  He began to measure distances.

  “Listen to me, partner. I’m going to leave you for a minute. You hear me?”

  Bud Trainor blanched, but be did not answer.

  “I’m going to leave you,” persisted the Kid, “but not for good. This is a fine lot of hard-riding boys that we’ve met up with today. And I’m a fool!” he added with a sudden bitterness. “I never should have brought you this close to them on a tired horse. I’m a fool! I’m too used to Duck Hawk. And she never says no!”

  He scanned the group of pursuers to the south, and those to the north. Those to the left were riding still like so many jockeys, and so were the men in the north. But the latter had, already, one mount which was being hopelessly distanced. The horse which had stumbled had been steadily losing ground. Now it stumbled again, and again, and at last it pulled up, apparently dead lame.

  The second of the trio to the right had lost a great distance, also, but still he was almost abreast of the fugitive. The rider of the silver charger was now far in front — so far that he was beginning to swing a little to the south, and so the holding net would soon be completed! Very fine horsemanship, indeed, but Bud Trainor could not admire it any more than he admired the death which it was spelling for him and the Kid.

  And a great, generous impulse suddenly swelled his throat, and he found himself shouting furiously:

  “Go on, Kid! You go on and save yourself. Don’t you mind me. Cut loose with the Duck Hawk and — lemme see if she can outrun that silver devil, yonder!”

  For answer, the Kid looked straight at him, a single second. And yet that look almost paid Bud for death itself.

  “Keep your gelding at this pace,” said the Kid critically. “He has a pair of lungs and a set of legs that won’t let him down. Don’t get rattled and attempt to sprint. Go straight on — and keep edging north! I’m going out ahead to do what I can. But I won’t leave you, Bud. Not unless gunpowder sends me on the way.”

  And he was gone.

  Bud Trainor, staring after his comrade, saw the mare for the first time settle to her work, and he could hardly believe his eyes. She seemed to lower toward the ground as her stride lengthened. There was no appreciable increase of effort, so far as he could see, no bobbing of the head, no bumping at the hips. But straight and smooth she blew away from him, two feet for every one his own mount was traveling.

  Almost immediately the pursuers were aware of this new maneuver. Bud could see them frantically flogging their horses. He saw the rider of the silver beauty turn and look back, and then go to the whip in turn. But it was of no avail. Either the mare was the much faster animal, or else the silver flash had been burned up too fast by an early sprint. For now the Hawk gained with wonderful ease.

  Chip Graham, if it were he, now turned, metal winked at his head. And the sound of the gun shot came dimly flying back to the ears of Bud Trainor.

  He looked, holding his breath, but the Kid had not fallen, had not winced. He rode on, flattened close to the neck of the mare, weaving a little in his course. Was that to baffle the marksmanship of the leader, or was it to take
advantage of the best going?

  To right and left, then, Bud Trainor measured the positions of the pursuers. For all of their whipping, they did not seem to be gaining perceptibly. Yes, they were crawling ahead a little, but not much. They were crawling ahead so far that his own gelding, to be sure, could hardly be expected to escape from their speed, unless the Kid performed some miracle.

  But might he not?

  Miracles, to those strong young hands, seemed everyday matters!

  Still the long, rating gallop of the Hawk continued, devouring distance, and then the inevitable happened.

  Chip Graham, if it were he, suddenly wheeled his silver horse around. A man cannot shoot straight from a galloping horse. Above all, he cannot shoot to the rear. And now the Kid was in close range. So around came the silver horse, and as it turned, the rider opened fire again.

  This time there was an answer. Bud Trainor saw the flash of the weapon in the hand of his comrade, saw the muzzle of it jerk suddenly upward. And the other, spreading out his hands before him, leaned slowly from the saddle, and then slid to the ground!

  Dead?

  He lay still where he had fallen, while the Kid, sweeping on, caught the silver stallion by the reins and, completing a small circle, headed straight back for Trainor in the rear!

  Then, at last, Bud understood, and his heart leaped in him. He looked again to the right, to the left, and now he saw still more frantic efforts on the part of the pursuers.

  Let them try!

  He asked the gelding for its last speed, now, and he gave it with a strong heart. A moment more, and the Kid had turned before him, holding the silver stallion on his left side, and well out.

  A circus trick to change mounts at full gallop, but Bud Trainor had spent all his life among saddles, and stirrups, and bare backs, for that matter. Shifting his left foot to his right stirrup, he waited for the proper moment, and then swung out. His left hand missed the pommel and caught the flashing mane. But his right hand gripped true, and in another moment, he was on such an animal as he never had backed before.