by Max Brand
Her lips framed words that made no sound. Truly, she was making a gallant struggle. Then she said: “Anthony!” She was pale with the struggle, now, but she rose bravely to her part. She even laughed, though it fell short like an arrow dropping in front of the target.
“Listen, Bard, you make a pretty good imitation of Samson, but I ain’t cut out for any Delilah. If I’m holding you here, why, cut and run and forget it.”
She drew a long breath and went on more confidently: “It ain’t any use; I’m not cut out for any man—I’d so much rather be—free. I’ve tried to get interested in others, but it never works.”
She laughed again, more surely, and with a certain hardness like the ringing of metal against metal, or the after rhythm from the peal of a bell. With deft, flying fingers she rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and sat down cross-legged.
Through the first outward puff of smoke went these words: “The only thing that’s a woman about me is skirts. That’s straight.”
Yet he knew that his power was besieging her on every side. Her power seemed gone, and she was like a rare flower in the hollow of his hand; all that he had to do was to close his fingers, and—He despised himself for it, but he could not resist. Moreover, he half counted on her pride to make her break away.
“Then if it’s hopeless, Sally Fortune, go now.”
She answered, with an upward tilt of her chin: “Don’t be a fool, Anthony. If I can’t be a woman to you, at least I can be a pal—the best you’ve had in these parts. Nope, I’ll see you through. Better saddle now—”
“And start back for Drew?”
There was the thrust that made her start, as if the knife went through tender flesh.
“Are you such a plumb fool as that?”
“Go now, Sally. I tell you, it’s no use. I won’t leave the trail of Drew.”
It was only the outward stretch of her arm, only the extension of her hand, palm up, but it was as if her whole nature expanded toward him in tenderness.
“Oh, Anthony, if you care for me, don’t stay in reach of Drew! You’re breaking—”
She stopped and closed her eyes.
“Breakin’ all the rules, like any tenderfoot would be expected to do.”
She glanced at him, wistful, to see whether or not she had smoothed it over; his face was a blank.
“You won’t go?”
“Nope.”
He insisted cruelly: “Why?”
“Because—because—well, can I leave a baby alone near a fire? Not me!”
Her voice changed. The light and the life was gone from it, but not all the music. It was low, a little hoarse.
“I guess we can stay here tonight without no danger. And in the morning—well, the morning can take care of itself. I’m going to turn in.”
He rose obediently and stood at the door, facing the night. From behind came the rustle of clothes, and the sense of her followed and surrounded and stood at his shoulder calling to him to turn. He had won, but he began to wonder if it had not been a Pyrrhic victory.
At length: “All right, Anthony. It’s your turn.”
She was lying on her side, facing the wall, a little heap of clothes on the foot of her bunk, and the lithe lines of her body something to be guessed at—sensed beneath the heavy blanket. He slipped into his own bunk and lay a moment watching the heavy drift of shadows across the ceiling. He strove to think, but the waves of light and dark blotted from his mind all except the feeling of her nearness, that indefinable power keen as the fragrance of a garden, which had never quite become disentangled from his spirit. She was there, so close. If he called, she would answer; if she answered—
He turned to the wall, shut his eyes, and closed his mind with a Spartan effort. His breathing came heavily, regularly, like one who slept or one who is running. Over that sound he caught at length another light rustling, and then the faint creak as she crossed the crazy floor. He made his face calm—forced his breath to grow more soft and regular.
Then, as if a shadow in which there is warmth had crossed him, he knew that she was leaning above him, close, closer; he could hear her breath. In a rush of tenderness, he forgot her beauty of eyes and round, strong throat, and supple body—he forgot, and was immersed, like an eagle winging into a radiant sunset cloud, in a sense only of her being, quite divorced from the flesh, the mysterious rare power which made her Sally Fortune, and would not change no matter what body might contain it.
It was blindingly intense, and when his senses cleared he knew that she was gone. He felt as if he had awakened from a night full of dreams more vivid than life—dreams which left him too weak to cope with reality.
For a time he dared not move. He was feeling for himself like a man who fumbles his way down a dark passage dangerous with obstructions. At last it was as if his hand touched the knob of a door; he swung it open, entered a room full of dazzling light—himself. He shrank back from it; closed his eyes against what he might see.
All he knew, then, was an overpowering will to see her. He turned, inch by inch, little degree by degree, knowing that if, when he turned, he looked into her eyes, the end would rush upon them, overwhelm them, carry them along like straws on the flooding river. At last his head was turned; he looked.
She lay on her back, smiling as she slept. One arm hung down from the bunk and the graceful fingers trailed, palm up, on the floor, curling a little, as if she had just relaxed her grasp on something. And down past her shoulder, half covering the whiteness of her arm, fled the torrent of brown hair, with the firelight playing through it like a sunlit mist.
He rose, and dressed with a deadly caution, for he knew that he must go at once, partly for her sake that he must be seen apart from her this night—partly because he knew that he must leave and never come back.
He had hit upon the distinctive feature of the girl—a purity as thin and clear as the air of the uplands in which she drew breath. He stooped and smoothed down the blankets of his bunk, for no trace of him must be seen if any other man should come during this night. He would go far away—see and be seen—apart from Sally Fortune. He picked up his saddle.
Before he departed he leaned low above her as she must have done above him, until the dark shadow of lashes was tremulous against her cheek. Then he straightened and stole step by step across the floor, to the door, to the night; all the myriad small white eyes of the heavens looked down to him in hushed surprise.
CHAPTER XXXVI
JERRY WOOD
When he was at the old Drew place before, Logan had told him of Jerry Wood’s place, five miles to the north among the hills; and to this he now directed his horse, riding at a merciless speed, as if he strove to gain, from the swift succession of rocks and trees that whirled past him, new thoughts to supplant the ones which already occupied him.
He reached in a short time a little rise of ground below which stretched a darkly wooded hollow, and in the midst the trees gave back from a small house, a two-storied affair, with not a light showing. He wished to announce himself and his name at this place under the pretence of asking harbourage for the brief remainder of the night. The news of what he had done at Drew’s place could not have travelled before him to Wood’s house; but the next day it would be sure to come, and Wood could say that he had seen Bard—alone—the previous night. It would be a sufficient shield for the name of Sally Fortune in that incurious region.
So he banged loudly at the door.
Eventually a light showed in an upper window and a voice cried: “Who’s there?”
“Anthony Bard.”
“Who the devil is Anthony Bard?”
“Lost in the hills. Can you give me a place to sleep for the rest of the night? I’m about done up.”
“Wait a minute.”
Voices stirred in the upper part of the house; the lantern disappeared; steps sounded, descending the stairs, and then the door was unbarred and held a cautious inch ajar. The ray of light jumped out at Bard like an accusing arm.
&
nbsp; Evidently a brief survey convinced Jerry Wood that the stranger was no more than what he pretended. He opened the door wide and stepped back.
“Come in.”
Bard moved inside, taking off his hat.
“How’d you happen to be lost in the hills?”
“I’m a bit of a stranger around here, you see.”
The other surveyed him with a growing grin.
“I guess maybe you are. Sure, we’ll put you up for the night. Where’s your hoss?”
He went out and raised the lantern above his head to look. The light shone back from the lustrous wide eyes of the grey.
Wood turned to Bard.
“Seems to me I’ve seen that hoss.”
“Yes. I bought it from Duffy out at Drew’s place.”
“Oh! Friend of Mr. Drew?”
Half a life spent on the mountain-desert had not been enough to remove from Drew that distinguishing title of respect. The range has more great men than it has “misters.”
“Not exactly a friend,” answered Bard.
“Sail right. Long’s you know him, you’re as good as gold with me. Come on along to the barn and we’ll knock down a feed for the hoss.”
He chuckled as he led the way.
“For that matter, there ain’t any I know that can say they’re friends to William Drew, though there’s plenty that would like to if they thought they could get away with it. How’s he lookin’?”
“Why, big and grey.”
“Sure. He never changes none. Time and years don’t mean nothin’ to Drew. He started bein’ a man when most of us is in short pants; he’ll keep on bein’ a man till he goes out. He ain’t got many friends—real ones—but I don’t know of any enemies, neither. All the time he’s been on the range Drew has never done a crooked piece of work. Every decent man on the range would take his word ag’in’—well, ag’in’ the Bible, for that matter.”
They reached the barn at the end of this encomium, and Bard unsaddled his horse. The other watched him critically.
“Know somethin’ about hosses, eh?”
“A little.”
“When I seen you, I put you down for a tenderfoot. Don’t mind, do you? The way you talked put me out.”
“For that matter, I suppose I am a tenderfoot.”
“Speakin’ of tenderfoots, I heard of one over to Eldara the other night that raised considerable hell. You ain’t him, are you?”
He lifted the lantern again and fixed his keen eyes on Bard.
“However,” he went on, lowering the lantern with an apologetic laugh, “I’m standin’ here askin’ questions and chatterin’ like a woman, and what you’re thinkin’ of is bed, eh? Come on with me.”
Upstairs in the house he found Bard a corner room with a pile of straw in the corner by way of a mattress. There he spread out some blankets, wished his guest a good sleep, and departed.
Left to himself, Anthony stretched out flat on his back. It had been a wild, hard day, but he felt not the slightest touch of weariness; all he wished was to relax his muscles for a few moments. Moreover, he must be away from the house with the dawn-first, because Sally Fortune might waken, guess where he had gone, and follow him; secondly because the news of what had happened at Drew’s place might reach Wood at any hour.
So he lay trying to fight the thought of Sally from his mind and concentrate on some way of getting back to Drew without riding the gauntlet of the law.
The sleep which stole upon him came by slow degrees; or, rather, he was not fully asleep, when a sound outside the house roused him to sharp consciousness compared with which his drowsiness had been a sleep.
It was a knocking at the door, not loud, but repeated. At the same time he heard Jerry Wood cursing softly in a neighbouring room, and then the telltale creak of bedsprings.
The host was rousing himself a second time that night. Or, rather, it was morning now, for when Anthony sat up he saw that the hills were stepping out of the shadows of the night, black, ugly shapes revealed by a grey background of the sky. A window went up noisily.
“Am I runnin’ a hotel?” roared Jerry Wood. “Ain’t I to have no sleep no more? Who are ye?”
A lowered, muttering voice answered.
“All right,” said Jerry, changing his tone at once. “I’ll come down.”
His steps descended the noisy stairs rapidly; the door creaked. Then voices began again outside the house, an indistinct mumble, rising to one sharp height in an exclamation.
Almost at once steps again sounded on the stairs, but softly now. Bard went quietly to the door, locked it, and stole back to the window. Below it extended the roof of a shed, joining the main body of the house only a few feet under his window and sloping to what could not have been a dangerous distance from the ground. He raised the window-sash.
Yet he waited, something as he had waited for Sally Fortune to speak earlier in the night, with a sense of danger, but a danger which thrilled and delighted him. No game of polo could match suspense like this. Besides, he would be foolish to go before he was sure.
The walls were gaping with cracks that carried the sounds, and now he heard a sibilant whisper with a perfect clearness.
“This is the room.”
There was a click as the lock was tried.
“Locked, damn it!”
“Shut up, Butch. Jerry, have you got a bar, or anything? We’ll pry it down and break in on him before he can get in action.”
“You’re a fool, McNamara. That feller don’t take a wink to get into action. Sure he didn’t hear you when you hollered out the window? That was a fool move, Wood.”
“I don’t think he heard. There wasn’t any sound from his room when I passed it goin’ downstairs. Think of the nerve of this bird comin’ here to roost after what he done.”
“He didn’t think we’d follow him so fast.”
But Anthony waited for no more. He slipped out on the roof of the shed, lowered himself hand below hand to the edge, and dropped lightly to the ground.
The grey, at his coming, flattened back its ears, as though it knew that more hard work was coming, but he saddled rapidly, led it outside, and rode a short distance into the forest. There he stopped.
His course lay due north, and then a swerve to the side and a straight course west for the ranch of William Drew. If the hounds of the law were so close on his trace, they certainly would never suspect him of doubling back in this manner, and he would have the rancher to himself when he arrived.
Yet still he did not start the grey forward to the north. For to the south lay Sally Fortune, and at the thought of her a singular hollowness came about his heart, a loneliness, not for himself, but for her. Yes, in a strange way all self was blotted from his emotion.
It would be a surrender to turn back—now.
And like a defeated man who rides in a lost cause, he swung the grey to the south and rode back over the trail, his head bowed.
CHAPTER XXXVII
“TODO ES PERDO”
It was not long after the departure of Bard that Sally Fortune awoke. For a step had creaked on the floor, and she looked up to find Steve Nash standing in the centre of the room with the firelight gloomily about him; behind, blocking the door with his squat figure, stood Shorty Kilrain.
“Where’s your side-kicker?” asked Nash. “Where’s Bard?”
And looking across the room, she saw that the other bunk was empty. She raised her arms quickly, as if to stifle a yawn, and sat up in the bunk, holding the blanket close about her shoulders. The face she showed to Nash was calmly contemptuous.
“The bird seems to be flown, eh?” she queried.
“Where is he?” he repeated, and made a step nearer.
She knew at last that her power over him as a woman was gone; she caught the danger of his tone, saw it in the steadiness of the eyes he fixed upon her. Behind was a great, vague feeling of loss, the old hollowness about the heart. It made her reckless of consequences; and when Nash asked, “Is he hangin�
�� around behind the corner, maybe?” she cried:
“If he was that close you’d have sense enough to run, Steve.”
The snarl of Nash showed his teeth.
“Out with it. The tenderfoot ain’t left his woman fur away. Where’s he gone? Who’s he gone to shoot in the back? Where’s the hoss he started out to rustle?”
“Kind of peeved, Nash, eh?”
One step more he made, towering above her.
“I’ve done bein’ polite, Sally. I’ve asked you a question.”
“And I’ve answered you: I don’t know.”
“Sally, I’m patient; I don’t mean no wrong to you. What you’ve been to me I’m goin’ to bust myself tryin’ to forget; but don’t lie to me now.”
Such a far greater woe kept up a throbbing ache in the hollow of her throat that now she laughed, laughed slowly, deliberately. He leaned, caught her wrist in a crushing pressure.
“You demon; you she-devil!”
She whirled out of the bunk, the blanket caught about her like the toga of some ancient Roman girl; and as she moved she had swept up something heavy and bright from the floor.
All this, and still his grip was on her left arm.
“Drop your hand, Nash.”
With a falling of the heart, she knew that he did not fear her gun; instead, a light of pleasure gleamed in his eyes and his lower jaw thrust out.
She would never forget his face as he looked that moment.
“Will you tell me?”
“I’ll see you in hell first.”
By that wrist he drew her resistlessly toward him, and his other arm went about her and crushed her close; hate, shame, rage, love were in the contorted face above her. She pressed the muzzle of her revolver against his side.
“You’re in beckoning distance of that hell, Steve!”
“You she-wolf—shoot and be damned! I’d live long enough to strangle you.”
“You know me, Steve; don’t be a fool.”
“Know you? Nobody knows you. And God Almighty, Sally, I love you worse’n ever; love the very way you hate me. Come here!”