The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  Already the subtle atmosphere of sickness had come upon the room. The shades of the windows were drawn evenly, and low down, so that the increasing brightness of the morning could only temper, not wholly dismiss the shadows. Night is the only reality of the sick-bed; the day is only a long evening, a waiting for the utter dark. The doctor’s little square satchel of instruments, vials, and bandages lay open on the table; he had changed the apartment as utterly as he had changed his face by putting on great, horn-rimmed spectacles. They gave an owl-like look to him, an air of omniscience. It seemed as if no mortal ailment could persist in the face of such wisdom.

  “Well?” whispered Drew.

  “You can speak out, but not loudly,” said the doctor calmly. “He’s delirious; the fever is getting its hold.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Nothing. The time hasn’t come for thinking.”

  He bent his emotionless eye closer on the big rancher.

  “You,” he said, “ought to be in bed this moment.”

  Drew waved the suggestion aside.

  “Let me give you a sedative,” added Young.

  “Nonsense. I’m going to stay here.”

  The doctor gave up the effort; dismissed Drew from his mind, and focused his glance on the patient once more. Calamity Ben was moving his head restlessly from side to side, keeping up a gibbering mutter. It rose now to words.

  “Joe, a mule is to a hoss what a woman is to a man. Ever notice? The difference ain’t so much in what they do as what they don’t do. Me speakin’ personal, I’ll take a lot from any hoss and lay it to jest plain spirit; but a mule can make me mad by standin’ still and doin’ nothing but wablin’ them long ears as if it understood things it wasn’t goin’ to speak about. Y’ always feel around a mule as if it knew somethin’ about you—had somethin’ on you—and was laughin’ soft and deep inside. Damn a mule! I remember—”

  But here he sank into the steady, voiceless whisper again, the shadow of a sound rather than the reality. It was ghostly to hear, even by daylight.

  “Will it keep up long?” asked Drew.

  “Maybe until he dies.”

  “I’ve told you before; it’s impossible for him to die.”

  The doctor made a gesture of resignation.

  He explained: “As long as this fever grows our man will steadily weaken; it shows that he’s on the downward path. If it breaks—why, that means that he will have a chance—more than a chance—to get well. It will mean that he has enough reserve strength to fight off the shock of the wound and survive the loss of the blood.”

  “It will mean,” said Drew, apparently thinking aloud, “that the guilt of murder does not fall on Anthony.”

  “Who is Anthony?”

  The wounded man broke in; his voice rose high and sharp: “Halt!”

  He went on, in a sighing mumble: “Shorty—help—I’m done for!”

  “The shooting,” said the doctor, who had kept his fingers on the wrist of his patient; “I could feel his pulse leap and stop when he said that.”

  “He said ‘halt!’ first; a very clear sign that he tried to stop Bard before Bard shot. Doctor, you’re witness to that?”

  He had grown deeply excited.

  “I’m witness to nothing. I never dreamed that you could be so interested in any human being.”

  He nodded to himself.

  “Do you know how I explained your greyness to myself? As that of a man ennuied with life—tired of living because he had nothing in the world to occupy his affections. And here I find you so far from being ennuied that you are using your whole strength to keep the guilt of murder away from another man. It’s amazing. The boys will never believe it.”

  He continued: “A man who raised a riot in your own house, almost burned down your place, shot your man, stole a horse—gad, Drew, you are sublime!”

  But if he expected an explanatory answer from the rancher he was disappointed. The latter pulled up a chair beside the bed and bent his stern eyes on the patient as if he were concentrating all of a great will on bringing Calamity Ben back to health.

  He worked with the doctor. Every half hour a temperature was taken, and it was going up steadily. Drew heard the report each time with a tightening of the muscles about his jaws. He helped pack the wounded man with wet cloths. He ran out and stopped a wrangling noise of the cowpunchers several times. But mostly he sat without motion beside the bed, trying to will the sufferer back to life.

  And in the middle of the morning, after taking a temperature, the doctor looked to the rancher with a sort of dull wonder.

  “It’s dropping?” whispered Drew.

  “It’s lower. I don’t think it’s dropping. It can’t be going down so soon. Wait till the next time I register it. If it’s still lower then, he’ll get well.”

  The grey man sagged forward from his chair to his knees and took the hands of Calamity, long-fingered, bony, cold hands they were. There he remained, moveless, his keen eyes close to the wandering stare of the delirious man. Out of the exhaustless reservoir of his will he seemed to be injecting an electric strength into the other, a steadying and even flow of power that passed from his hands and into the body of Calamity.

  When the time came, and Young stood looking down at the thermometer, Drew lifted haggard eyes, waiting.

  “It’s lower!”

  The great arms of the rancher were thrown above his head; he rose, changed, triumphant, as if he had torn his happiness from the heart of the heavens, and went hastily from the room, silent.

  At the stable he took his great bay, saddled him, and swung out on the trail for Eldara, a short, rough trail which led across the Saverack—the same course which Nash and Bard had taken the day before.

  But the river had greatly fallen—the water hardly washed above the knees of the horse except in the centre of the stream; by noon he reached the town and went straight for the office of Glendin. The deputy was not there, and the rancher was referred to Murphy’s saloon.

  There he found Glendin, seated at a corner table with a glass of beer in front of him, and considering the sun-whitened landscape lazily through the window. At the sound of the heavy footfall of Drew he turned, rose, his shoulders flattened against the wall behind him like a cornered man prepared for a desperate stand.

  “It’s all right,” cried Drew. “It’s all over, Glendin. Duffy won’t press any charges against Bard; he says that he’s given the horse away. And Calamity Ben is going to live.”

  “Who says he will?”

  “I’ve just ridden in from his bedside. Dr. Young says the crisis is past. And so—thank God—there’s no danger to Bard; he’s free from the law!”

  “Too late,” said the deputy.

  It did not seem that Drew heard him. He stepped closer and turned his head.

  “What’s that?”

  “Too late. I’ve sent out men to—to apprehend Bard.”

  “Apprehend him?” repeated Drew. “Is it possible? To murder him, you mean!”

  He had not made a threatening move, but the deputy had his grip on the butt of his gun.

  “It was that devil Nash. He persuaded me to send out a posse with him in charge.”

  “And you sent him?”

  “What could I do? Ain’t it legal?”

  “Murder is legal—sometimes. It has been in the past. I’ve an idea that it’s going to be again.”

  “What d’you mean by that?”

  “You’ll learn later. Where did they go for Bard?”

  He did not seem disappointed. He was rather like a man who had already heard bad news and now only finds it confirmed. He knew before. Now the fact was simply clinched.

  “They went out to your old place on the other side of the range. Drew, listen to me—”

  “How many went after him?”

  “Nash, Butch Conklin, and five more. Butch’s gang.”

  “Conklin!”

  “I was in a hole; I needed men.”

  “How long hav
e they been gone?”

  “Since last night.”

  “Then,” said Drew, “he’s already dead. He doesn’t know the mountains.”

  “I give Nash strict orders not to do nothin’ but apprehend Bard.”

  “Don’t talk, Glendin. It disgusts me—makes my flesh crawl. He’s alone, with seven cutthroats against him.”

  “Not alone. Sally Fortune’s better’n two common men.”

  “The girl? God bless her! She’s with him; she knows the country. There may be a hope; Glendin, if you’re wise, start praying now that I find Bard alive. If I don’t—”

  The swinging doors closed behind him as he rushed through toward his horse. Glendin stood dazed, his face mottled with a sick pallor. Then he moved automatically toward the bar. Murphy hobbled down the length of the room on his wooden leg and placed bottle and glass before the deputy.

  “Well?” he queried.

  Glendin poured his drink with a shaking hand, spilling much liquor across the varnished wood. He drained his glass at a gulp.

  “I dunno; what d’you think, Murphy?”

  “You heard him talk, Glendin. You ought to know what’s best.”

  “Let’s hear you say it.”

  “I’d climb the best hoss I owned and start west, and when I come to the sea I’d take a ship and keep right on goin’ till I got halfway around the world. And then I’d climb a mountain and hire a couple of dead-shots for guards and have my first night’s sleep. After that I’d begin thinkin’ of what I could do to get away from Drew.”

  “Murphy,” said the other, “maybe that line of talk would sound sort of exaggerated to some, but I ain’t one of them. You’ve got a wooden leg, but your brain’s sound. But tell me, what in God’s name makes him so thick with the tenderfoot?”

  He waited for no answer, but started for the door.

  CHAPTER XL

  PARTNERS

  If Drew had done hard things in his life, few were more remorseless than the ride on the great bay horse that day. Starting out, he reckoned coldly the total strength of the gallant animal, the distance to his old house, and figured that it was just within possibilities that he might reach the place before evening. From that moment it was certain that the horse would not survive the ride.

  It was merely a question as to whether or not the master had so gaged his strength that the bay would not collapse before even the summit of the range had been reached. As the miles went by the horse loosened and extended finely to his work; sweat darkened and polished his flanks; flecks of foam whirled back and spattered his chest and the legs of his rider; he kept on; almost to the last the rein had to be drawn taut; to the very last his heart was even greater than his body.

  Up the steep slopes Drew let the horse walk; every other inch of the way it was either the fast trot or a swinging gallop, not the mechanical, easy pace of the cattle-pony, but a driving, lunging speed. The big hoofs literally smashed at the rocks, and the ringing of it echoed hollowly along the rock face of the ravine.

  At the summit, for a single moment, like a bird of prey pausing in mid circle to note the position of the field mouse before it closes wings and bolts down out of the blue, Drew sat his horse motionless and stared down into the valleys below until he noted the exact location of his house—the lake glittered back and up to him in the slant light of the late afternoon. The bay, such was the violence of its panting, literally rocked beneath him.

  Then he started the last downward course, sweeping along the treacherous trail with reckless speed, the rocks scattering before him. When they straightened out on the level going beneath, the bay was staggering; there was no longer any of the lilt and ease of the strong horse running; it was a succession of jerks and jars, and the panting was a sharper sound than the thunder of the hoofs. His shoulders, his flanks, his neck—all was foam now; and little by little the proud head fell, reached out; still he drove against the bit; still the rider had to keep up the restraining pressure.

  Until at last he knew that the horse was dying on his feet; dying with each heavy stride it made. Then he let the reins hang limp. It was sad to see the answer of the bay—a snort, as if of happiness; a pricking of the ears; a sudden lengthening of stride and quickening; a nobler lift to the head.

  Past the margin of the lake they swept, crashed through the woods to the right; and now, very distinctly, Drew heard the heavy drum of firing. He groaned and drove home the spurs. And still, by some miracle, there was something left in the horse which responded; not strength, certainly that was gone long ago, but there was an indomitable spirit bred into it with its fine blood by gentle care for generations. The going was heavier among the trees, and yet the bay increased its pace. The crackle of the rifles grew more and more distinct. A fallen trunk blocked the way.

  With a snort the bay gathered speed, rose, cleared the trunk with a last glorious effort, and fell dead on the other side.

  Drew disentangled his feet from the stirrup, raised the head of the horse, stared an instant into the glazing eyes, and then turned and ran on among the trees. Panting, dripping with sweat, his face contorted terribly by his effort, he came at last behind that rocky shoulder which commanded the approach to the old house.

  He found seven men sheltered there, keeping up a steady, dropping fire on the house. McNamara sat propped against a rock, a clumsy, dirty bandage around his thigh; Isaacs lay prone, a stained rag twisted tightly around his shoulder; Lovel sat with his legs crossed, staring stupidly down to the steady drip of blood from his left forearm.

  But Ufert, Kilrain, Conklin, and Nash maintained the fight; and Drew wondered what casualties lay on the other side.

  At his rush, at the sound of his heavy footfall over the rocks, the four turned with a single movement; Ufert covered him with a rifle, but Nash knocked down the boy’s arm.

  “We’ve done talkin’; it’s our time to listen; understand?”

  Ufert, gone sullen, obeyed. He was at that age between youth and manhood when the blood, despite the songs of the poets, runs slow, cold; before the heart has been called out in love, or even in friendship; before fear or hate or anything saving a deep egoism has possessed the brain.

  He looked about to the others for his cue. What he saw disturbed him. Shorty Kilrain, like a boy caught playing truant, edged little by little back against the rock; Butch Conklin, his eyes staring, had grown waxy pale; Steve Nash himself was sullen and gloomy rather than defiant.

  And all this because of a grey man far past the prime of life who ran stumbling, panting, toward them. At his nearer approach a flash of understanding touched Ufert. Perhaps it was the sheer bulk of the newcomer; perhaps, more than this, it was something of stern dignity that oppressed the boy with awe. He fought against the feeling, but he was uneasy; he wanted to be far away from that place.

  Straight upon them the big grey man strode and halted in front of Nash.

  He said, his voice harsh and broken by his running: “I ordered you to bring him to me unharmed. What does this mean, Nash?”

  The cowpuncher answered sulkily: “Glendin sent us out.”

  “Don’t lie. You sent yourself and took these men. I’ve seen Glendin.”

  His wrath was tempered with a sneer.

  “But here you are four against one. Go down and bring him out to me alive!”

  There was no answer.

  “You said you wanted no odds against any one man.”

  “When a man and a woman stand together,” answered Nash, “they’re worse than a hundred. That devil, Sally Fortune, is down there with him.”

  A gun cracked from the house; the bullet chipped the rock with an evil clang, and the flake of stone whirled through the air and landed at the feet of Drew.

  “There’s your answer,” said Nash. “But we’ve got the rat cornered.”

  “Wrong again. Calamity Ben is going to live—”

  A cry of joy came from Shorty Kilrain.

  “Duffy says that he gave his horse away to Bard. Glendin has calle
d back your posse. Ride, Nash! Or else go down there unarmed and bring Bard up to me.”

  The shadow of a smile crossed the lips of Nash.

  “If the law’s done with him, I’m not. I won’t ride, and I won’t go down to him. I’ve got the upper hand and I’m going to hold it.”

  “If you’re afraid to go down, I will.”

  Drew unbuckled his cartridge belt and tossed it with his gun against the rocks. He drew out a white handkerchief, and holding it above him, at a full arm’s length, he stepped out from the shelter. The others, gathering at their places of vantage, watched his progress toward the house. Steve Nash described it to the wounded men, who had dragged themselves half erect.

  “He’s walkin’ right toward the house, wavin’ the white rag. They ain’t goin’ to shoot. He’s goin’ around the side of the house. He’s stopped there under the trees.”

  “Where?”

  “At that grave of his wife under the two trees. He waits there like he expected Bard to come out to him. And, by God, there goes Bard to meet him—right out into the open.”

  “Steady, Steve! Drop that gun! If you shoot now you’ll have Drew on your head afterward.”

  “Don’t I know it? But God, wouldn’t it be easy? I got him square inside the sights. Jest press the trigger and Anthony Bard is done for. He walks up to Drew. He’s got no gun on. He’s empty-handed jest like Drew. He’s said something short and quick and starts to step across the grave.

  “Drew points down to it and makes an answer. Bard steps back like he’d been hit across the face and stands there lookin’ at the mound. What did Drew say? I’d give ten years of life to hear that talk!

  “Bard looks sort of stunned; he stands there with a hand shadin’ his eyes, but the sun ain’t that bright. Well, I knew nobody could ever stand up to Drew.

  “The chief is talkin’ fast and hard. The young feller shakes his head. Drew begins talkin’ again. You’d think he was pleadin’ for his life in front of a jury that meant him wrong. His hands go out like he was makin’ an election speech. He holds one hand down like he was measurin’ the height of a kid. He throws up his arms again like he’d lost everything in the world.