by Max Brand
In the midst of his struggle, strangely enough, he began to whistle the music he had learned from Dan Barry, the song of The Untamed, those who hunt for ever, and are for ever hunted. When his whistling died away he touched his hand to his lips where Kate had kissed him, and then smiled. The sun pushed up over the eastern hills.
When he entered the ranch house the big room was a scene of much arm stretching and yawning as the outlaws dressed. Lee Haines was already dressed. Buck smiled ironically.
“I say, Lee,” he said, “you look sort of used up this mornin’, eh?”
The long rider scowled.
“I’d make a guess you’ve not had much sleep, Haines,” went on Buck. “Your eyes is sort of hollow.”
“Not as hollow as your damned lying heart!”
“Drop that!” commanded Silent. “You hold a grudge like a woman, Lee! How was the watch, Buck? Are you all in?”
“Nothin’ come up the valley, an’ here I am at sunrise,” said Buck. “I reckon that speaks for itself.”
“It sure does,” said Silent, “but the gal and her father are kind of slow this mornin’. The old man generally has a fire goin’ before dawn is fairly come. There ain’t no sign of smoke now.”
“Maybe he’s sleepin’ late after the excitement of yesterday,” said Bill Kilduff. “You must of thrown some sensation into the family, Buck.”
The eyes of Haines had not moved from the face of Buck.
“I think I’ll go over and see what’s keeping them so late in bed,” he said, and left the house.
“He takes it pretty hard,” said Jordan, his scarred face twisted with Satanic mirth, “but don’t go rubbin’ it into him, Buck, or you’ll be havin’ a man-sized fight on your hands. I’d jest about as soon mix with the chief as cross Haines. When he starts the undertaker does the finishin’!”
“Thanks for remindin’ me,” said Buck drily. Through the window he saw Haines throw open the door of the shanty.
The outcry which Buck expected did not follow. For a long moment the long rider stood there without moving. Then he turned and walked slowly back to the house, his head bent, his forehead gathered in a puzzled frown.
“What’s the matter, Lee?” called Silent as his lieutenant entered the room again. “You look sort of sick. Didn’t she have a bright mornin’ smile for you?”
Haines raised his head slowly. The frown was not yet gone.
“They aren’t there,” he announced.
His eyes shifted to Buck. Everyone followed his example, Silent cursing softly.
“As a joker, Lee,” said Buck coldly, “you’re some Little Eva. I s’pose they jest nacherally evaporated durin’ the night, maybe?”
“Haines,” said Silent sharply, “are you serious?”
The latter nodded.
“Then by God, Buck, you’ll have to say a lot in a few words. Lee, you suspected him all the time, but I was a fool!”
Daniels felt the colour leaving his face, but help came from the quarter from which he least expected it.
“Jim, don’t draw!” cried Haines.
The eyes of the chief glittered like the hawk’s who sees the field mouse scurrying over the ground far below.
“He ain’t your meat, Lee,” he said. “It’s me he’s double crossed.”
“Chief,” said Haines, “last night while he watched the shanty, I watched him!”
“Well?”
“I saw him keep his post in front of the cabin all night without moving. And he was wide awake all the time.”
“Then how in hell—”
“The back door of the cabin!” said Kilduff suddenly.
“By God, that’s it! They sneaked out there and then went down on the other side of the house.”
“If I had let them go,” interposed Buck, “do you suppose I’d be here?”
The keen glance of Silent moved from Buck to Haines, and then back again. He turned his back on them.
The quiet which had fallen on the room was now broken by the usual clatter of voices, cursing, and laughter. In the midst of it Haines stepped close to Buck and spoke in a guarded voice.
“Buck,” he said, “I don’t know how you did it, but I have an idea—”
“Did what?”
The eyes of Haines were sad.
“I was a clean man, once,” he said quietly, “and you’ve done a clean man’s work!”
He put out his hand and that of Buck’s advanced slowly to meet it.
“Was it for Dan or Kate that you did it?”
The glance of Buck roamed far away.
“I dunno,” he said softly. “I think it was to save my own rotten soul!”
On the other side of the room Silent beckoned to Purvis.
“What is it?” asked Hal, coming close.
“Speak low,” said Silent. “I’m talking to you, not to the crowd. I think Buck is crooked as hell. I want you to ride down to the neighbourhood of his house. Scout around it day and night. You may see something worth while.”
Meanwhile, in that utter blackness which precedes the dawn, Kate and her father reached the mouth of the canyon.
“Kate,” said old Joe in a tremulous voice, “if I was a prayin’ man I’d git down on my knees an’ thank God for deliverin’ you tonight.”
“Thank Buck Daniels, who’s left his life in pawn for us. I’ll go straight for Buck’s house. You must ride to Sheriff Morris and tell him that an honest man is up there in the power of Silent’s gang.”
“But—” he began.
She waved her hand to him, and spurring her horse to a furious gallop raced off into the night. Her father stared after her for a few moments, but then, as she had advised, rode for Gus Morris.
CHAPTER XXXII
THOSE WHO SEE IN THE DARK
It was still early morning when Kate swung from her horse before the house of Buck Daniels. Instinct seemed to lead her to the sick-room, and when she reached it she paid not the slightest attention to the old man and his wife, who sat nodding beside the bed. They started up when they heard the challenging growl of Black Bart, which relapsed into an eager whine of welcome as he recognized Kate.
She saw nothing but the drawn white face of Dan and his blue pencilled eyelids. She ran to him. Old Sam, hardly awake, reached out to stop her. His wife held him back.
“It’s Delilah!” she whispered. “I seen her face!”
Kate was murmuring soft, formless sounds which made the old man and his wife look to each other with awe. They retreated towards the door as if they had been found intruding where they had no right.
They saw the fever-bright eyes of Dan open. They heard him murmur petulantly, his glance wandering. Her hand passed across his forehead, and then her touch lingered on the bandage which surrounded his left shoulder. She cried out at that, and Dan’s glance checked in its wandering and fixed upon the face which leaned above him. They saw his eyes brighten, widen, and a frown gradually contract his forehead. Then his hand went up slowly and found hers.
He whispered something.
“What did he say?” murmured Sam.
“I dunno,” she answered. “I think it was ‘Delilah!’ See her shrink!”
“Shut up!” cautioned Sam. “Ma, he’s comin’ to his senses!”
There was no doubt of it now, for a meaning had come into his eyes.
“Shall I take her away?” queried Sam in a hasty whisper. “He may do the girl harm. Look at the yaller in his eyes!”
“No,” said his wife softly, “it’s time for us to leave ’em alone.”
“But look at him now!” he muttered. “He’s makin’ a sound back in his throat like the growl of a wolf! I’m afeard for the gal, ma!”
“Sam, you’re an old fool!”
He followed her reluctantly from the room.
“Now,” said his wife, “we c’n leave the door a little open—jest a crack—an’ you c’n look through and tell when she’s in any reel danger.”
Sam obeyed.
“D
an ain’t sayin’ a word,” he said. “He’s jest glarin’ at her.”
“An’ what’s she doin’?” asked Mrs. Daniels.
“She’s got her arm around his shoulders. I never knew they could be such a pile of music in a gal’s voice, ma!”
“Sam, you was always a fool!”
“He’s pushin’ her away to the length of his arm.”
“An’ she? An’ she?” whispered Mrs. Daniels.
“She’s talkin’ quick. The big wolf is standin’ close to them an’ turnin’ his head from one face to the other like he was wonderin’ which was right in the argyment.”
“The ways of lovers is as queer as the ways of the Lord, Sam!”
“Dan has caught an arm up before his face, an’ he’s sayin’ one word over an’ over. She’s dropped on her knees beside the bed. She’s talkin’. Why does she talk so low, ma?”
“She don’t dare speak loud for fear her silly heart would bust. Oh, I know, I know! What fools all men be! What fools! She’s askin’ him to forgive her.”
“An’ he’s tryin’ all his might not to,” whispered Mrs. Daniels in an awe-stricken voice.
“Black Bart has put his head on the lap of the gal. You c’n hear him whine! Dan looks at the wolf an’ then at the girl. He seems sort of dumbfoundered. She’s got her one hand on the head of Bart. She’s got the other hand to her face, and she’s weepin’ into that hand. Martha, she’s give up tryin’ to persuade him.”
There was a moment of silence.
“He’s reachin’ out his hand for Black Bart. His fingers is on those of the girl. They’s both starin’.”
“Ay, ay!” she said. “An’ what now?”
But Sam closed the door and set his back to it, facing his wife.
“I reckon the rest of it’s jest like the endin’ of a book, ma,” he said.
“Men is all fools!” whispered Mrs. Daniels, but there were tears in her eyes.
Sam went out to put up Kate’s horse in the stable. Mrs. Daniels sat in the dining-room, her hands clasped in her lap while she watched the grey dawn come up the east. When Sam entered and spoke to her, she returned no answer. He shook his head as if her mood completely baffled him, and then, worn out by the long watching, he went to bed.
For a long time Mrs. Daniels sat without moving, with the same strange smile transfiguring her. Then she heard a soft step pause at the entrance to the room, and turning saw Kate. There was something in their faces which made them strangely alike. A marvellous grace and dignity came to Mrs. Daniels as she rose.
“My dear!” she said.
“I’m so happy!” whispered Kate.
“Yes, dear! And Dan?”
“He’s sleeping like a child! Will you look at him? I think the fever’s gone!”
They went hand in hand—like two girls, and they leaned above the bed where Whistling Dan lay smiling as he slept. On the floor Black Bart growled faintly, opened one eye on them, and then relapsed into slumber. There was no longer anything to guard against in that house.
* * * *
It was several days later that Hal Purvis, returning from his scouting expedition, met no less a person that Sheriff Gus Morris at the mouth of the canyon leading to the old Salton place.
“Lucky I met you, Hal,” said the genial sheriff. “I’ve saved you from a wild-goose chase.”
“How’s that?”
“Silent has jest moved.”
“Where?”
“He’s taken the trail up the canyon an’ cut across over the hills to that old shanty on Bald-eagle Creek. It stands—”
“I know where it is,” said Purvis. “Why’d he move?”
“Things was gettin’ too hot. I rode over to tell him that the boys was talkin’ of huntin’ up the canyon to see if they could get any clue of him. They knowed from Joe Cumberland that the gang was once here.”
“Cumberland went to you when he got out of the valley?” queried Purvis with a grin.
“Straight.”
“And then where did Cumberland go?”
“I s’pose he went home an’ joined his gal.”
“He didn’t,” said Purvis drily.
“Then where is he? An’ who the hell cares where he is?”
“They’re both at Buck Daniels’s house.”
“Look here, Purvis, ain’t Buck one of your own men? Why, I seen him up at the camp jest a while ago!”
“Maybe you did, but the next time you call around he’s apt to be missin’.”
“D’you think—”
“He’s double crossed us. I not only seen the girl an’ her father at Buck’s house, but I also seen a big dog hangin’ around the house. Gus, it was Black Bart, an’ where that wolf is you c’n lay to it that Whistlin’ Dan ain’t far away!”
The sheriff stared at him in dumb amazement, his mouth open.
“They’s a price of ten thousand on the head of Whistlin’ Dan,” suggested Purvis.
The sheriff still seemed too astonished to understand.
“I s’pose,” said Purvis, “that you wouldn’t care special for an easy lump sum of ten thousand, what?”
“In Buck Daniels’s house!” burst out the sheriff.
“Yep,” nodded Purvis, “that’s where the money is if you c’n get enough men together to gather in Whistlin’ Dan Barry.”
“D’you really think I’d get some boys together to round up Whistlin’ Dan? Why, Hal, you know there ain’t no real reason for that price on his head!”
“D’you always wait for ‘real reasons’ before you set your fat hands on a wad of money?”
The sheriff moistened his lips.
“Ten thousand dollars!”
“Ten thousand dollars!” echoed Purvis.
“By God, I’ll do it! If I got him, the boys would forget all about Silent. They’re afraid of Jim, but jest the thought of Barry paralyzes them! I’ll start roundin’ up the boys I need today. Tonight we’ll do our plannin’. Tomorrer mornin’ bright an’ early we’ll hit the trail.”
“Why not go after him tonight?”
“Because he’d have an edge on us. I got a hunch that devil c’n see in the dark.”
He grinned apologetically for this strange idea, but Purvis nodded with perfect sympathy, and then turned his horse up the canyon. The sheriff rode home whistling. On ten thousand dollars more he would be able to retire from this strenuous life.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE SONG OF THE UNTAMED
Buck and his father were learning of a thousand crimes charged against Dan. Wherever a man riding a black horse committed an outrage it was laid to the account of this new and most terrible of long riders. Two cowpunchers were found dead on the plains. Their half-emptied revolvers lay close to their hands, and their horses were not far off. In ordinary times it would have been accepted that they had killed each other, for they were known enemies, but now men had room for one thought only. And why should not a man with the courage to take an outlaw from the centre of Elkhead be charged with every crime on the range? Jim Silent had been a grim plague, but at least he was human. This devil defied death.
These were both sad and happy days for Kate. The chief cause of her sadness, strangely enough, was the rapidly returning strength of Dan. While he was helpless he belonged to her. When he was strong he belonged to his vengeance on Jim Silent; and when she heard Dan whistling softly his own wild, weird music, she knew its meaning as she would have known the wail of a hungry wolf on a winter night. It was the song of the untamed. She never spoke of her knowledge. She took the happiness of the moment to her heart and closed her eyes against tomorrow.
Then came an evening when she watched Dan play with Black Bart—a game of tag in which they darted about the room with a violence which threatened to wreck the furniture, but running with such soft footfalls that there was no sound except the rattle of Bart’s claws against the floor and the rush of their breath. They came to an abrupt stop and Dan dropped into a chair while Black Bart sank upon his hau
nches and snapped at the hand which Dan flicked across his face with lightning movements. The master fell motionless and silent. His eyes forgot the wolf. Rising, they rested on Kate’s face. They rose again and looked past her.
She understood and waited.
“Kate,” he said at last, “I’ve got to start on the trail.”
Her smile went out. She looked where she knew his eyes were staring, through the window and far out across the hills where the shadows deepened and dropped slanting and black across the hollows. Far away a coyote wailed. The wind which swept the hills seemed to her like a refrain of Dan’s whistling—the song and the summons of the untamed.
“That trail will never bring you home,” she said.
There was a long silence.
“You ain’t cryin’, honey?”
“I’m not crying, Dan.”
“I got to go.”
“Yes.”
“Kate, you got a dyin’ whisper in your voice.”
“That will pass, dear.”
“Why, honey, you are cryin’!”
He took her face between his hands, and stared into her misted eyes, but then his glance wandered past her, through the window, out to the shadowy hills.
“You won’t leave me now?” she pleaded.
“I must!”
“Give me one hour more!”
“Look!” he said, and pointed.
She saw Black Bart reared up with his forepaws resting on the window-sill, while he looked into the thickening night with the eyes of the hunter which sees in the dark.
“The wolf knows, Kate,” he said, “but I can’t explain.”
He kissed her forehead, but she strained close to him and raised her lips.
She cried, “My whole soul is on them.”
“Not that!” he said huskily. “There’s still blood on my lips an’ I’m goin’ out to get them clean.”
He was gone through the door with the wolf racing before him.
She stumbled after him, her arms outspread, blind with tears; and then, seeing that he was gone indeed, she dropped into the chair, buried her face against the place where his head had rested, and wept. Far away the coyote wailed again, and this time nearer.