by Max Brand
She pressed her hands suddenly across her face, and jerked them down again.
The Kid, watching her, went on: “A gray mule. Gray when we had it, and nearly silver when I saw it again when I was fifteen. There was a barbed-wire cut across his chest, a thing you don’t often see in mules. They’re altogether too wise, usually, to—”
“Blister!” cried the girl. “It’s old Blister that you mean!”
He nodded.
“If you found my father, the first of all the five, why did you go away without harming him? Because you knew in spite of anything, that he is a good man!”
“I went away because of you,” said the Kid.
“Because of me?”
“You used to ride old Blister.”
“Why, I learned to ride on him. He didn’t know how to make a mistake. He—”
She stopped, wretchedly tormented. Her lips twitched and her eyes were haunted.
“One day you were riding him up the trail through the hills behind your place. Up through those hills, yonder. You passed a youngster, dressed mostly in rags. He was wearing one shoe and one moccasin. He was sitting by a spring taking a rest, and you told him that if he went down to the ranch house, he’d get something worth while.”
“I remember his blue eyes,” said the girl, “and—”
She stopped short again, her lips parting.
“It was you!” said she.
“Yeah,” drawled the Kid. “It was I, all right. That evening I went down and looked things over. You were in the room where the piano is. Your mother was playing; you were singing; your father was asleep in his chair, but you kept on singing to the open window. You were only a youngster, but you were singing love songs to the dark of that window. And I was out there in the dark, watching.”
He made a pause, as if to remember the scene more clearly.
“Since then,” said the Kid, “I’ve come back three times, always at night, and I’ve always seen you, and I’ve always gone away. Since that day, when I was fifteen, you’ve been in my mind as clearly as a thing learned by heart when you’re very young.”
“I don’t exactly know what you’re trying to say,” said the girl.
“You know very well,” said the Kid, “what I want to say. And you know that I won’t say it.”
He stood up before her. For out of the distance the melancholy sound grew from the horizon, and suddenly she saw that with more than half his mind he was listening to it. It was the lowing of the thirst-tormented cattle by Hurry Creek.
“Whatever happens,” said the Kid, “you see that I’ve put my cards face up on the table. I suppose you’d better show them to your father.”
29. CATTLE LOVER
IN THE SUNSET of that day, the black mare and the silver stallion stood on the crest of a hill overlooking the big hollow through which Hurry Creek ran from ravine to ravine. The light was growing dim, but still there was enough of it for the Kid and Bud Trainor to see quite clearly.
There was a continual shifting and flowing, as it seemed, of the very ground that led down toward the water. It was the troubled maneuvering of masses upon masses of thirsty cattle. Still, from the outer reaches of the ranch, the cattle were drifting in toward the familiar watering place. They could be seen coming, sometimes singly, sometimes in patient files that went one behind the other, winding across the well-worn trails. From the hills on top of which they had a view of the creek, these approaching animals were sure to send out a deep lowing as they were made aware of a new and unprecedented condition there by the water which was life to them.
Sometimes they seemed frightened and remained a long time to gaze. Sometimes they grew excited, and breaking into a gallop, rushed up to join the mob.
There was no sense in them. The cunning of long years on the range was burned out of them. They were simply stupid creatures driven by an inward fire. The bellowing, like the noise of a sea, was so deep and thunderous that at times it seemed far off, and at times it rushed on the ear as though the entire herd were stampeding in the direction of the watchers. Now and then one of the milling currents stumbled on something, like rapid water flowing over a rock; and there was no need for the Kid or Bud Trainor to tell one another what those obstacles were.
Not fifty yards away from them lay a dead cow, with her legs sticking straight out, as though she had been shot through the brain and had tumbled over upon her side. And upon her head sat a buzzard looking in the sunset light as big as a deformed child. Other buzzards were in the air, though perhaps the near presence of the two riders prevented any of them from joining their companion on the dead cow. But whole drifts of those wonderful flyers sailed low above Hurry Creek, sweeping and sailing without a flap of wings just above the dust cloud which rolled over the heads of the cows and was drawn slowly off on the westering wind.
Through that mist of dust, they could see the surface of Hurry Creek running red as blood under the sunset, and on the farther bank there was already the shine of a camp fire which grew brighter as the light of the day decreased.
There were Champ Dixon’s men making themselves comfortable, and even jolly, no doubt, in the midst of this scene of unspeakable misery and horror.
“That’s the way with gents,” philosophized Bud Trainor. “You can get a man into a frame of mind for pretty nigh anything. Murder, say. You can get the best sort of people to go to war, and there they’ll do all the murderin’ they can get a chance to lay their hands on. How many of ’em would stay honest if just the right, safe chance to steal come and nudged ’em in the ribs? Look at me. I sold you right in my own house.”
“Bud, never speak of that again,” said the Kid.
“You want that I should forget it, but even if I don’t talk, it’s in my head, all day, every day, all night, every night.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said the Kid.
“I ain’t gonna be. But I’m gonna find a way to pay back. I’m gonna find a way to make it right with you, Kid. That’s all I’ve gotta say, and I’ll never mention it again!”
He snapped his jaws on the last word.
“What’s murder of men?” demanded the Kid. “Men have brains. They have wits enough to hit back. They have guns to help ’em. But a horde of dumb beasts — that’s what I don’t understand, Bud. Dumb beasts that have done no wrong, because they don’t know enough to do wrong. Look at them there! There’ll be plenty of crow food on that ground before the morning. Bud!”
“Maybe the boys’ll rush ’em before the morning,” suggested Bud.
He gestured to either side.
Keeping to the ridges of the hills that made the rim of the bowl through which the creek flowed, all the punchers of the ranch were riding. Slowly they went up and down, never offering to do anything, except keep a sentry beat. But those dark figures, moving black against the sunset sky, were grim enough, and suggestive of the dark passion that was in the heart of every man of them.
“No,” said the Kid. “They know the sort of stuff that’s down there in the hollow, and they won’t rush. Not them!”
He sneered as he spoke.
His voice was rising. His excitement also flashed and glittered in his eyes.
“You’d think,” said Bud Trainor, wondering, “that you owned all of those cows, and loved ’em, too!”
“If I were the devil,” said the Kid, “I’d get on the backs of these cows and put hell fire into their hearts. I’d run them in a mob on those fences and smash ’em down, and I’d charge them right onto the men and stamp ’em into a big bloodstain in the mud. I’d do it, and I’d enjoy doing it. They’re dying, Bud. They’re dying tonight, but when the heat of the sun comes tomorrow, they’ll drop like flies — all the ones that have been off on the edges of the ranch, already without water for days.”
“They’ll drop like flies,” agreed Bud Trainor. “There ain’t any doubt that they’ll drop like flies.”
“You’d think,” said the Kid, “that there wasn’t a God, when things like this go on!
”
“Look here. Kid,” said Trainor, “you’ve raised your own share of hell in the world.”
“I’ve raised my share, and harvested it, too,” admitted the Kid, “and sacked it, and put it away for the winter. I’ve raised my share, and maybe I’ll raise some more, but not till I’ve tried my hand with this job!”
“Hold on,” said Bud Trainor. “How can you try your hand — what job d’you mean?”
The Kid looked sourly on him. His handsome young face was so dark with anger that he seemed ten years older.
“This job in front of us,” said the Kid. “I’m going to get those cows to water in the morning, or else I’ll throw some lead into Dixon’s boys as a fair exchange.”
“Don’t be a fool,” cautioned Trainor, alarmed. “They have the law with them. Even the sheriff admits that.”
“The heck with the law,” said the Kid. “I’m thinking of dying cows. One wag of their tails is worth all the lives of those dirty crooks yonder!”
“Hold on, Kid. What’s your idea?”
“I’ve got no idea.”
“You’ve got none?”
“But I’ll get one before long.”
“Where? Where’ll you get an idea for the fixing of this job?”
“Oh, I dunno. From the devil maybe, or heaven above. But the idea is sure to come!”
30. DOWN THE CANYON
THE SCENE WAS darkening. The river tarnished and turned black. The fog of dust which rolled up from the milling cows now was Iessening, though now and again the wind drifted a throat-stinging billow of it toward the watchers.
The cattle by this time were becoming more quiet. Numbers of them lay down. Only some hundreds of those most desperate with thirst came sweeping up and down the lines of the fences. The thunder of the bellowing was far less, but still from the hills behind, the newcomers gave voice like mournful drums in a great and scattering chorus.
There was this difference with the coming of the night, for while the clearly seen tragedy of the day had been localized and limited, now the darkness blanketed away the farther mountains and brought down only the nearer hills like black and beastly watchers of suffering. The ocean roar of pain went up against the sky and seemed to fill it. It seeped up from the very ground which actually, or in suggestion, trembled beneath them. Hurry Creek had seemed a little theater during the day where a tragedy was being enacted. Now it included the entire world.
So it seemed to Bud Trainor, as he sat on his horse beside the Kid and looked down on the darkening hollow.
“Suppose Dixon’s men wanted to get out of there,” said Bud. “They’d have a hard time, I reckon!”
“Why should they want to leave?” said the Kid. “They’re holding out for two hundred thousand dollars’ blackmail. That’s what they want, and as long as they care to camp there, I don’t see them running very short of beef, do you?”
The other nodded, and then sighed a little.
“Well,” said he, “I meant that if this were an Indian war, the red devils would rather be strung around up here on the heights than to be down there in the hollow.”
“That’s interesting, but not important,” said the Kid. “They could be besieged there for six months, and never have to worry. And if they got tired of that, they could break away. But there’s meat enough for them.”
“They haven’t much wood,” objected the other. “They’ve cleaned up the brush and stacked it in the middle of their camp. You can still see the head of it beside their cookin’ tent. But that ain’t enough wood for six months’ fuel. Not for cooking for that many men! Besides, they wouldn’t dare to touch one of the dead cows.”
“Why not?”
“Well, wouldn’t that make them thieves, and wouldn’t we have the law with us, then? Wouldn’t Milman be able to raise the whole range to help him, if they did as much as that?”
“You’re right,” said the Kid, “but they have plenty of provisions with them in there. And — and — and—”
Here his voice faltered and trailed away.
Bud Trainor, for some reason, knew that a matter of importance was filling the brain of his partner, and he held his breath in anticipation.
“Bud,” said the Kid at last, “I’m going down into that camp.
“All right,” said Bud. “Which recipe for walkin’ the air do you use?”
The Kid was silent.
“You might just stroll down through them mobs of cows,” said Bud Trainor. “They wouldn’t do much more to you than a steam roller would.”
Then he added: “I dunno how else you could get there!”
“The ravine! The ravine!” cried the Kid, his voice suddenly ringing out with impatient joy. “What a fool I was not to think of that before!”
“The ravine?” echoed Bud. “You mean Hurry Creek’s ravine?”
“That’s what I mean, of course. Let’s go there and look the thing over!”
Bud gripped the rein of the mare.
“You’re clean crazy, Kid,” said he.
“Let me alone, Bud. You don’t have to go. I’ll do this alone!”
“I won’t let you go. Not before you listen a minute.”
“To what?”
“To that. Bend your ear a little to the north, and just listen, will you?”
It came distinctly through the melancholy booming voices of the cows, a deep and harsh roar which the Kid instantly made out.
“That’s the water of the creek. Is that what you mean?”
“Listen to it. Sounds like a lion, doesn’t it?”
“Let it be a lion. I’ll walk down its throat if I have to. I could drink blood tonight, Bud.”
“You’re simply going crazy,” said the other. “You’ve never seen the waters in the ravine. Come along with me to the edge of it. If we can’t see ’em, we’ll hear ’em, at least, at close hand. And that’ll be enough for you, if you’re in your right wits.”
“Very well. Come along then with me.”
They cantered their horses forward.
“Who’s there?” rang a voice from the darkness before them, and then they made out the silhouette of a horseman, and the starlit glimmer of a leveled rifle.
“Friends!” said the Kid, pulling up the mare.
“What friends?”
“Bud Trainor, and I’m the Kid.”
“Hey! Are you the Kid?”
The rifle took a crosswise, harmless slant, and the puncher came up.
“Hullo there, Kid,” said he. “I’d been hopin’ that I’d see you down here. My name’s Bill Travis.”
They shook hands.
“Things is pretty bad with the cows,” said Travis. “They’s a lot laid down that ain’t gonna get up in the morning,
“There are a lot who’ll get up in the morning and drop before noon, too,” said the Kid.
“That’s a true thing. Any fool could tell that. Got a chaw with you?”
“I don’t carry it. Here’s the makings, though.”
He passed them over. Dexterously the puncher made his smoke in the dark of the night.
“What are you fellows going to do about this, Travis?”
“Why, what can we do?”
“I don’t know. Any ideas among the boys?”
“Nothing except we might stampede the cows to break down the fences.”
“It wouldn’t work. They’d shoot the head off of any stampede.”
“That’s what we decided. It won’t work. Maybe the old man will have an idea.”
“Are they keeping a sentry go along those fences tonight?”
“Sure they are. Three men along each fence. And the others ready to come on the jump, I suppose.”
“Baby murder — that’s what it is!” said the Kid, his rage breaking out. “Listen!”
He held up his hand in the darkness. The lowing of the cattle swept up around them in waves, as though all the tormented souls from hell were pouring up toward the stars, lamenting. “Aye, it’s pretty bad,” said Tra
vis. “Shay and Dixon — they’ll sweat for it some day.”
“Tonight, I hope,” said the Kid, muttering through his teeth.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. You boys are riding these rounds all night?”
“We’re riding ’em all the night. If Dixon’s crowd starts out to do a little foraging, we’ll teach them how the Milman crew can shoot. The boys are pretty hot. Old Tar Yagers, over on the other side of the ranch, is hankering after a scalp or two, and maybe the old man will get a chance, before this fracas is finished.”
“Maybe he will,” agreed the Kid. “So long. You fellows keep your eyes open, will you?”
“For what?”
“For a signal in the Dixon Camp.”
“What sort of a signal?”
“Fire,” said the Kid, and rode on without further speech.
Bud hurried the silver stallion up beside him.
“What’s that about fire, Kid?” he asked.
But he received no answer, for the Kid seemed lost in thought.
So they came, at last, to the edge of the ravine.
Three steps away the predominant sound was the voice of the cattle from the hollow, but when they came to the verge and dismounted, they could hear nothing except the heavy and continual roaring of the water, like a constant cannonade.
“Listen to it!” said Bud Trainor. “How’d you like to be down there in that, Kid?”
The Kid did not answer.
Presently he drew back from the verge of the cliff.
“You’ve seen that in the daytime, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How far is it to the bottom?”
“Forty — fifty feet, I reckon.”
“You’ve got a sixty-foot rope,” said the Kid. “Get it for me, will you?”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Bud, for heaven’s sake, stop asking questions. I have enough on my mind, just now, without trying to answer you.”
“All right,” said Bud, “but it makes me pretty sick, even to think about it.”
He went, however, to his horse, and took from the saddle bow the long, heavy rope, for he had learned his punching in Montana when a boy, and stuck to the fashion of the northern rope. This he brought back and the Kid, taking the noose end of it, tied it fast about a jag of rock on the very verge of the canyon wall.