Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  The Kid stood there with his hands and feet lashed, his back to her. Facing him was a loose semicircle of Dixon’s men; and just in front of him was Shay, his long, white face inhumanly ugly as he balanced a revolver in his right hand.

  “I’m going to hold up a minute, Kid,” said he. “If you got anything to say, we’ll try to remember it for you.”

  The Kid answered, and his voice was clear, free, and almost joyous.

  “I can talk for quite a while, Billy, but I don’t want you to make your wrist ache, holding that heavy gun so long.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Billy Shay. “Just talk your heart out, if you want to, Kid.”

  “Well, there are only two or three things. You know Bud Trainor, some of you?”

  “Yeah, I know the sucker,” said a voice.

  “Well, tell Bud to forget about this. Tell him that was one of my last wishes. He might have an idea that something was expected of him.”

  “Not if he’s got sense,” said the other. “But I’ll pass your word along to him.”

  “Another thing,” said the Kid, “is that I’d like to have my name scratched on a rock, and the rock put at my head, so that if the Milmans get around to burying me, they’ll know who is lying here. My name is Benjamin Chapin, alias a lot of things.”

  “What makes you tell us?” said Billy Shay, curiously. “After you’ve covered it up for so long, too!”

  “I’ll tell you why,” said the Kid. “There’s one person in the world that I wish to learn it, and this is the only way I can make sure that the news will travel.”

  “It’s a girl, Kid, I suppose?” said Shay.

  “Billy,” said the Kid, “a warm, sensitive, proud heart like yours is sure to get at the truth of things. Yes, Billy, it’s a girl.”

  “Yeah, you been a heartbreaker all your days,” said Billy Shay. “I’m supposin’ that she’ll bust hers when she learns how you dropped.”

  “Thank you, Billy,” said the Kid. “There’s one other thing. I think that Bud Trainor may do as I want and keep his hands off you. But there’s another who won’t. Boys, watch out for him, when little Davey gets man-size.”

  “Is that all?” asked Shay.

  “Yes, that’s all, Billy. Go ahead.”

  “No prayin’, nor nothin’ like that?”

  “Prayers won’t help a man like me,” said the Kid cheerfully. “I’ve done too much that was wrong. You boys will know when you come to my place. You’ll understand what I mean when I say the prayers don’t help. Excuse me for talking a little bit like Sunday school. All right, Billy.”

  “Now for you,” said Shay, stepping a little closer, and his face twisting into more consummate ugliness. “You’ve hounded me, and you’ve dogged nie. You blamed your partner’s death on me. You’re right. I plugged him and the reason that I plugged him was because he was your friend. You done me shame in Dry Creek. It ain’t a thing for me to live down. But I’ll have the taste of this to make me feel better. Kid, you’re gonna see the devil in another quarter of a second!”

  And, with this, he jerked up the gun until it was level with the head of the Kid.

  A report sounded, but no smoke issued from the revolver in Billy Shay’s hand. It was a sound closer to the girl, and with a wild glance, she saw that a rifle was couched against the shoulder of Bud Trainor, as he sat his saddle in the dust cloud near the fence.

  The head of Billy Shay jerked back. He leaned. It was as though he wished to recoil from his victim, the Kid, but could not move his feet. Back he leaned. His body was stiff. He reached an absurd angle. It seemed as though he must be sustained by the counterpoise of some other weight.

  And then he slumped heavily to the ground, with a distinct impact.

  There were guns in the hands of the entire semicircle of Dixon’s men, but, with amazed, uncomprehending faces, they stared into the dust fog, and could see nothing. The firelight which made them easy targets had blinded them thoroughly.

  Then Dolly Smith leaped to the side of the Kid.

  “Drop, Kid, drop!” he screamed, in a voice femininely high.

  And, beside the Kid, he slumped to the ground, where the fallen body of Shay lay like a shallow bulwark between them and the other guns.

  42. HEROES

  THE GIRL, WATCHING with fascinated eyes, frozen in her saddle, saw the gleam of a knife in the hands of Dolly Smith as it made the two quick slashes which turned the Kid into a free, fighting man.

  Then she heard the cry of her father’s voice, as he shouted: “Charge them, boys! Blow them off the face of the earth! Charge ’em! Charge ’em!”

  And there, behold, black and huge between her and the firelight, appeared the form of John Milman as his horse rose for the leap and then sailed over the top strand of the barbed wire.

  “Charge ’em” shrieked the higher, more piercing voice, and she saw little Davey go over the fence a short distance away, an old revolver exploding blindly, uselessly in his hand.

  Bud Trainor shouted also. It was the whoop of a wild Indian. And he, too, had taken that fence with a bound of his horse.

  How the silver stallion shone as it sailed across the rose hue of the firelight!

  And Dixon’s twenty heroes?

  There were not more than a dozen of them in that group, in the first place. Others were off guarding the fence lines. But of the dozen who were there, it seemed that not one took any care of standing up to fight the thing out.

  The surprise was complete.

  They had seen that one of their best men, in the crisis, had gone over to the enemy. And then there was the spectacle of the riders plunging over the fence, shouting, calling out as if to a host, and looking greater than human in that fantastic-like haze as they rushed through the dust fog.

  Dixon’s crowd did not lack leadership.

  It was Champ Dixon himself who turned with a yell of fear and showed the way. But he was fairly passed by most of the others in the flight that followed.

  Perhaps half a dozen wild shots plowed up the ground or uselessly whirred through the air. And all in a trice the ground was vacant.

  The Kid and Dolly Smith — for Smith had armed the Kid in the first moment the latter’s hands were free — had not had to fire a shot.

  It was mysterious; it was almost ludicrous. And as the formidable Dixon mob vanished into the dark of the night, Bud Trainor, his nerves giving way under the strain, began to laugh hysterically.

  It seemed ridiculously easy, a thing that children could have done as well, but the girl, sitting quietly there in the dark of the night, understood perfectly. None but heroes could have done such a feat — and heroes they were, little Davey Trainor most of all, and Bud, and her own father. A tremor went through her, pulsing as if from the sound of a deep, friendly voice at her ear.

  There were other men of the Dixon-Shay outfit to be accounted for, and, above all, there was the imminent danger that the fugitives, learning how small a force had struck at them, would return to blot out this insolent little group.

  What could they do?

  The inspiration came to her, then.

  She drew the wire nippers from her pocket. Three clicks, three sounds like the snapping of bowstrings, and there was a gateway made. Like piled-up water at a breaking dam, the cattle poured through. Three more clicks and another gate. And then — for the guards had fled from this side of the fence line — the other cattle, maddened by the sight of their compansions getting through toward the water, pressed forward in masses. They put their tough chests against the barbs. Down they went. There were cuts and gashes, but what of that? Water was more precious than blood to these starved creatures, and sweeping in hordes through a dozen gaps, they galloped for the water. The creek was black with them!

  That was not all.

  The stroke at the center of the Dixon camp had dissolved all its force, it appeared. Even from the other fence line to the west of the creek, the guards had withdrawn, and the cattle, inspired by the sight of th
eir fellows drinking on the opposite, shore, pressed in on the fence, and it also went down in great sections.

  Down they rushed. A vast bellowing arose. It sounded to the gir! like the shouting of triumphant armies, legion on legion. Armies of right, which had conquered, and the wrong had gone down!

  She reined her horse away from a threatening rush of the cattle. In so doing, she was forced into the small group which had taken shelter from the invading beasts behind a specially strong section of the fencing.

  Davey and Bud were secure in another spot.

  And here she found herself with her father, and with the Kid. Dolly Smith was near the fire itself, for the brightness of it turned the cows easily, while they still were at a considerable distance.

  The Kid was on one side of her now, and her father on the other, and silently they watched the cows flooding down to the river, whose silver, star- freckled face became all black and full of strange movements.

  The bellowing died down. There were clashing of horns, and clacking of hurrying, split hoofs. That was all. Even this disturbance grew less. Even for all the thousands on the ranch, there was ample water in Hurry Creek, and the starved animals were rapidly drinking to repletion.

  Some of them, filled to bursting, lay down on the bank, unable to move farther. And a quiet, profound joy and trust grew up in the girl as she watched the thirsty cattle.

  “Chapin,” said her father, “I’ve promised to tell Georgia. I want to tell you, also. That day when you were six years old and the thieves came at you out of the night—”

  “Milman,” said the Kid, “you don’t need to tell me. Tonight has told me by itself. When I saw you jump your horse over that fence, then I knew that I was wrong.”

  “Do you think that?”

  “I know it.”

  “I’ll tell you this much more. I’d gone north to buy cattle for the ranch. We had a chance at a bargain in a big sale, up there. I made the purchase. I started south on horseback, to see a huge section of the range, and look out for likely places to buy grazing lands for the southern drive. And, on the way, I made a fool of myself at a small town; I met those fellows you found me with. I drank too much. And that same night I rode south with them. They blundered onto your little outfit. I think I was half foolish with liquor. It merely seemed to me a silly practical joke. Then, the next morning, I realized. There was one of the thieves named Turk Reming. He seemed a decent sort of a fellow. I had to go on south. But I bought the entire lot of the cattle they had stolen, and Reming swore that he could get the money back to the man who had been plundered. I can only give you my word for that, my lad; and that I left the cattle with a dealer in the next village, and that I went on south, taking the mule along to carry my pack and make the going lighter for my horse. I can’t really ask you to believe such a cock-and-bull story. It’s the truth, but I know that no jury in the world ever would believe it!”

  “Georgia,” said the Kid, “how about you, if you were on that jury?”

  “She’s a prejudiced juror,” said Milman, “but—”

  “I’m prejudiced, too,” said the Kid. “Georgia, have I got a good reason to be?”

  John Milman grew suddenly hot with discomfort, and very tense, and then he heard his daughter say clearly, and in such a voice as he had never heard from her before:

  “Ben, you have all the reason in the world. All the reason that I can give you!”

  THE END

  The Lightning Warrior (1932)

  OR, THE WHITE WOLF

  CONTENTS

  I. THE MIRACLE MAN

  II. MODERN GAL

  III. THE LIGHTNING WARRIOR

  IV. TRAILED BY A GHOST

  V. STALKING

  VI. MAN AND BEAST

  VII. THE RETURN

  VIII. STRAIGHT TALK

  IX. THE LOVE COURT

  X. CAVE MAN STUFF

  XI. WOLF TAMER

  XII. GETTING IN DEEP

  XIII. A SCREECHER

  XIV. RULING WOLFISH PASSION

  XV. THE ICE TRAIL

  XVI. THE NEW TEAM

  XVII. SHELTER AT LAST

  XVIII. TOMMY’S AGE

  XIX. SYLVIA AT WORK

  XX. PRODDING A MEMORY

  XXI. THIS IS FRIENDSHIP

  XXII. SOAPY AND THE CROWD

  XXIII. THE WILD MAN AGAIN

  XXIV. THE RAWHIDE KID

  XXV. AN INCIDENT

  XXVI. THE YEGGS

  XXVII. SOME QUESTIONS

  XVIII. THE LION’S DEN

  XXIX. SOAPY’S CABINET

  XXX. THE KID

  XXXI. A LITTLE SMASHING

  XXXII. THE RIGHT CLUB

  XXXIII. SYLVIA GOES NATIVE

  XXXIV. BUCKING THE THUGS

  XXXV. A SHOWDOWN IN SIGHT

  XXXVI. A NECKTIE PARTY

  XXXVII. THEY MEET

  XXXVIII. TERMINUS AD QUEM

  XXXIX. THE MONARCH BEATEN

  XL. INLAND

  XLI. FATIGUE

  XLII. THE LAST BATTLE

  XLIII. REMINISCENT

  I. THE MIRACLE MAN

  FROM DAWSON TO the Bering Sea, Cobalt had no other name. The flame of his hair never won him the nickname of “Red” or “Brick.” He was only Cobalt from the beginning to the end, and this name, no doubt, was given to him by his eyes, which varied according to his temper from a dull-steel gray to an intense blue with fire behind it. Everyone knew Cobalt. He had come over the pass three years before, and for every step that he took, rumor took ten more. Lightning splashed from the feet of the running gods, and startling reports had spread like lightning from the steps of Cobalt. Many of the things which were said of him never could have been true, but he gathered mystery and an air of enchantment about him. Even what men could not believe, they wanted to believe. There is no human being who has not reveled in fairy tales, and Cobalt was a fairy tale.

  He was not beautiful, but he was glorious. When one saw him, one believed, or hypnotized oneself into believing the tales that were told of him. Cobalt never verified or confirmed any of these stories. He never repeated a syllable of them, but of course he must have known about them. All of these tales were remarkable, and some of them were sheer impossibilities, but it is as well to note some of them at the beginning. Men are not what they are, but what other people think them to be. So it was with Cobalt and, in order to know him, one must know of the opinions of his peers.

  They told of Cobalt that he once ate eleven pounds of beef, slept twenty hours, and then did a full man’s work in hauling for eight days without any sustenance except the bits of snow which he picked up and ate to quench his thirst. Four men attested to the truth of this tale. They said that the thing was the result of a bet, but I never have heard that they actually weighed the meat. Also I have seen eleven pounds of beef and, when cut as steaks, it makes an imposing heap. That tale of Cobalt was typical in that it showed a superhuman quality and also a half-mad, half-gay willingness to tackle anything for a bet, a jest, or a serious purpose.

  It was said that once he jumped from a fifty-foot bridge and spoiled a fifty-dollar suit in order to win a one-dollar bet. This tale is among the ridiculous and impossible stories which are told of Cobalt, so that one would say that the man must have been absolutely mad to inspire such talk. However, it just happens that I was present and saw him take the dive.

  It was said of Cobalt that in a traveling circus he saw a strong man lift a platform on which there was a piano, a woman playing the piano, and a small dog. The man was labeled the strongest in the world as a matter of course. Cobalt, on another bet, added to the platform another woman, another dog, and the strong man himself and lifted the entire enormous load. Of this story I have nothing to say, and I shall make very little comment upon the others. The items illustrating his strength were innumerable. It was said that he had taken a good-size steel bar and bent it into a horseshoe. This twisted bar was kept on the wall of a saloon in Circle City. Men used to look at it, shake their heads over it, and
try their own petty strength in a vain effort to change its shape. They always failed and finally that bar became a rather silly legend at which men laughed.

  Then one day Cobalt came back. Someone asked him to unbend the steel bar, and it was handed to him. I myself was there, and I saw the purple vein lift and swell in a straight, diagonal line in his forehead, as he bent the bar into a straight line once more. He threw it to the man who had asked him to attempt the feat, and thereafter the bar was reinstalled upon the wall. Long after, it still remained there and must have been worth a fortune to the saloon keeper, so many people went in to look at the famous bar where the metal had failed to straighten correctly. Nearly everyone handled it and tried it between his hands, or even across his knee, but no one could alter the thing.

  It was said that once he hit a man and killed him with a blow to the body. That has been done before, and actually the blow of a gloved hand has killed a man in the ring, a trained heavyweight who was struck over the heart. The miraculous feature of Cobalt’s punch was that it had landed not on the left but upon the right side of the body. The blow was said to have broken three ribs. This always seemed to me one of the most incredible tales about Cobalt, but I have talked with Gene Pelham, now of Portland, Maine, and he declares that he was the physician who examined the body. He makes this report: that the man was a big Canuck with the build of a heavyweight wrestling champion and the bones to go with it. Upon the right side of the man, where the ribs spring out most boldly, there was a great purple welt and under this welt there actually were three broken ribs.

  I asked the doctor if the breaking of the ribs upon the right side could have killed the man, big and strong as he was. He told me that it could hardly have been breaking of the ribs, but the effects of shock operate strangely. There was a bruise at the base of the Canuck’s skull, and the doctor felt sure that his death had been due to concussion of the brain, owing to the manner in which his head struck the floor in falling.

  Another exhibit for Cobalt was a row of four whiskey bottles in the Circle City saloon. Three were empty and one was about a third full. It was solemnly declared that he had drunk all of that whiskey during a single long session in the saloon. This would have been about two-thirds of a gallon of strong whiskey. The exhibit was kept on show partly as a curiosity and partly to demonstrate the excellent quality of the red-eye which was sold in the saloon. I leave those to judge of this feat who know what a strong head is needed to resist the punishment contained in a single bottle of whiskey.