The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  Perhaps the speech was rather long for Joan to follow, but the conclusion was plain enough; and there was Kate, she also upon one knee and her arms stretched out.

  “Joan, my baby, my darling!”

  “Munner!” whispered the child and ran towards her.

  A growl came up in the throat of Black Bart and then sank away into a whine; Joan stopped short, and turned her head.

  “Joan!” cried Kate.

  Anguish made her voice loud, and from the loudness Joan shrank, for there was never a harsh sound in the cave except the growl of Bart warning away danger. She turned quite around and there stood Daddy Dan, perfectly erect, quite indifferent, to all seeming, as to her choice. She went to him with a rush and caught at his hands.

  “Oh, Daddy Dan, I don’t want to go. Don’t you want Joan?”

  He laid a hand upon her head, and she felt the tremor of his fingers; the wolf-dog lay down at her feet and looked up in her face; Satan, from the shadows beyond, whinnied again.

  After that there was not a word spoken, for Kate looked at the picture of the three, saw the pity in the eyes of Whistling Dan, saw the wonder in the eyes of Joan, saw the truth of all she had lost. She turned towards the entrance and went out, her head bowed, stumbling over the pebbles.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  The Test

  The most that could be said of Rickett was that it had a courthouse and plenty of quiet so perfect that the minds of the office holders could turn and turn and hear no sound saving their own turning. There were, of course, more buildings than the courthouse, but not so many that they could not be grouped conveniently along one street. The hush which rested over Rickett was never broken except in the periods immediately after the spring and fall round-ups when the saloons and gaming tables were suddenly flooded with business. Otherwise it was a rare event indeed which injected excitement into the village.

  Such an event was the gathering of Sheriff Pete Glass’ posse.

  There had been other occasions when Pete and officers before his time had combed the county to get the cream of the fighting men, but the gathering of the new posse became different in many ways. In the first place the call for members was not confined to the county, for though it stretched as large as many a minor European kingdom, it had not the population of a respectable manufacturing town, and Pete Glass went far beyond its bounds to get his trailers. Everywhere he had the posters set up and on the posters appeared the bait. The state began the game with a reward of three thousand dollars; the county plastered two thousand dollars on top of that to make it an even five: then the town of Alder dug into its deep pockets and produced twenty-five hundred, while disinterested parties added contributions which swelled the total to a round ten thousand. Ten thousand dollars reward for the man described below, dead or alive. Ten thousand dollars which might be earned by the investment of a single bullet and the pressure on trigger; and above this the fame which such a deed would bring—no wonder that the mountain-desert hummed through all its peaks and plains, and stirred to life. Moreover, the news had gone abroad, the tale of the Killing of Alder and everything that went before. It went West; it appeared in newspapers; it cropped up at firesides; it gave a spark of terror to a myriad conversations; and every one in Rickett felt that the eye of the nation was upon it; every one in Rickett dreamed nightly of the man described: “Daniel Barry, called Whistling Dan, about five feet nine or ten, slender, black hair, brown eyes, age about thirty years.”

  Secretly, Rickett felt perfectly convinced that Sheriff Pete Glass alone could handle this fellow and trim his claws for they knew how many a “bad man” had built a reputation high as Babel and baffled posses and murdered right and left, until the little dusty man on the little dusty roan went out alone and came back alone, and another fierce name went from history into legend. However, there were doubters, since this affair had new earmarks. It had been buzzed abroad that Whistling Dan was not only the hunted, but also the hunter, and that he had pledged himself to strike down all the seven who first took his trail. Five of these were already gone; two remained, and of these two one was Vic Gregg, no despicable fighter himself, and the other was no less than the invincible little sheriff himself. To imagine the sheriff beaten in the speed of his draw or the accuracy of his shot was to imagine the First Cause, Infinity, or whatever else is inconceivable; nevertheless, there were such possibilities as bullets fired at night through the window, and attacks from the rear. So Rickett waited, and held its breath and kept his eyes rather more behind than in front.

  In the meantime, there was no lack of amusement, for from the four corners, blown by the four winds, men rode out of the mountain-desert and drifted into Rickett to seek for a place on that posse. Twenty men, that was the goal the sheriff had set. Twenty men trained to a hair. Beside the courthouse was a shooting gallery not overmuch used except during the two annual seasons of prosperity and reckless spending, and Pete Glass secured this place to test out applicants. After, they passed this trial they were mustered into his presence, and he gave them an examination for himself. Just what he asked them or what he could never be known, but some men came from his presence very red, and others extremely pale, and some men blustered, and some men swore, and some men rode hastily out of town and spoke not a word, but few, very few, were those who came out wearing a little badge on their vest with the pride of a Knight of the Garter. At first the hordes rode in, young and old, youths keen for a taste of adventure, rusty fellows who had once been noted warriors; but these early levies soon discovered that courage and willingness was not so much valued as accuracy, and the old-timers learned, also, that accuracy must be accompanied by speed; and even when a man possessed both these qualities of hand and eye the gentle, inscrutable little man in his office might still reject them for reasons they could not guess.

  This one thing was certain: the next time Pete Glass ran for office he would be beaten even by a greaser. He made enemies at the rate of a hundred a day during that period of selection.

  Still the twenty was not recruited to the full. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen were gathered into the fold, but still five men were lacking to complete the toll. Most men would have started their man-hunt with that formidable force, but Pete Glass was methodical. In his own heart of hearts he would have given his hope of heaven to meet Barry face to face and hand to hand, and see which was the better man, but Pete Glass owed a duty to his state before he owed a duty to himself. He stuck by his first plan. And every day the inhabitants of Rickett gathered at the shooting gallery to watch the tests and wonder at the successes and smile at the failures.

  It was a very hard test which the sheriff had imposed. A man stood to one side of the iron-plate back wall which served as the target. He stood entirely out of sight and through an aperture in the side wall, at a signal, he tossed a round ball of clay, painted white. The marksman stood a good ten paces off, and he must strike that clay ball as it passed across the target. The balls were so small that even to strike them when they were stationary was a difficult task, and to hit them in motion was enough to task the quickest eye and the cunningest hand.

  It was old Pop Giersberg who stood with his ancient forty-five behind the counter, with his feet braced, on this bright morning, and behind him half of Rickett was gathered.

  “D’you give me warnin’, son?” he inquired of the man at the counter.

  “Nary a warnin’,” grinned the other, who was one of the chosen fifteen.

  He wished Pop well. So did they all, but they had seen every man fail for two days at that target and one and all they had their doubts. Pop had been a formidable man in his day, but now his hand was stiff and his hair gray. He was at least twenty years older than he felt.

  He had hardly finished asking his question when a white ball was tossed across the target. Up came the gun of Pop Giersberg, exploded, and the bullet clanged on the iron; the white ball floated idly on across the wall and disappeared on the other side.

  “Gimme another chance!�
�� pleaded Pop, with a quaver in his voice. “That was just a try to get my eye in shape.”

  “Sure,” chuckled the deputy. “Everybody gets three tries. It ain’t hardly nacheral to hit that ball the first crack. Leastways, nobody ain’t done it yet. You jest keep your eye peeled, Pop, and that ball will come out ag’in.”

  And Pop literally kept his eye peeled.

  He had double reason to pray for success, for his “old woman” had smiled and shook her head when he allowed that he would try out for a place on that posse. All his nerves grew taut and keen. He waited.

  Once more the white streak appeared and surely he who threw the ball had every wish to see Pop succeed, for he tossed it high and easily. Again the gun barked from Giersberg’s hand, and again the ball dropped almost slowly out of sight.

  “It’s a trick!” gasped Pop. “It’s something damned queer.”

  “They’s a considerable pile of gents, that think the same way you do,” admitted the deputy sheriff, dryly.

  Pop glared at him and gritted his teeth.

  “Lead the damn thing on ag’in,” he said, and muttered the rest of his sentence to himself. He jerked his hat lower over his eyes, spread his feet a little more, and got ready for the last desperate chance.

  But fate was against Pop. Twenty years before he might have struck that mark if he had been in top condition, but today, though he put his very soul into the effort, and though the ball for the third time was lobbed with the utmost gentleness through the air, his bullet banged vainly against the sheet of iron and the white, inoffensive ball continued on its way.

  Words came in the throat of Pop, reached his opened mouth, and died there. He thrust the gun back into its holster, and turned slowly toward the crowd. There was no smile to meet his challenging eye, for Pop was a known man, and though he might have failed to strike this elusive mark that was no sign that he would fail to hit something six feet in height by a couple in breadth. When he found that no mockery awaited him, a sheepish smile began at his eyes and wandered dimly to his lips.

  “Well, gents,” he muttered, “I guess I ain’t as young as I was once. S’long!”

  He shouldered his way to the door and was gone.

  “That’s about all, friends,” said the deputy crisply. “I guess there ain’t any more clamorin’s for a place today?”

  He swept the crowd with a complacent eye.

  “If you got no objection,” murmured a newcomer, who had just slipped into the room, “I’d sort of like to take a shot at that.”

  CHAPTER XXVII

  The Sixth Man

  It caused a quick turning of heads.

  “I don’t want to put you out none,” said the applicant gently. His voice was extremely gentle, and there was about him all the shrinking aloofness of the naturally timid. The deputy looked him over with quiet amusement—slender fellow with the gentlest brown eyes—and then with a quick side glance invited the crowd to get in on the joke.

  “You ain’t puttin’ me out,” he assured the other. “Not if you pay for your own ammunition.”

  “Oh, yes,” answered the would-be man-hunter, “I reckon I could afford that.”

  He was so serious about it that the crowd murmured its amusement instead of bursting into loud laughter. If the man was a fool, at least he was not aggressive in his folly. They gave way and he walked slowly towards the counter and stepped into the little open space beside the master of ceremonies. Very obviously he was ill at ease to find himself the center of so much attention.

  “I s’pose you been practicin’ up on tin-cans?” suggested the deputy, leaning on the counter.

  “Sometimes I hit things and sometimes I don’t,” answered the stranger.

  “Well,” and this was put more crisply as the deputy brought out a large pad of paper, “jest gimme your name, partner.”

  “Joe Cumber.” He grew still more ill at ease. “I hear that even if you hit the mark you got to talk to the sheriff himself afterwards?”

  “Yep.”

  The applicant sighed.

  “Why d’you ask?”

  “I ain’t much on words.”

  “But hell with your gun, eh?” The deputy sheriff grinned again, but when the other turned his head toward him, his smile went out, suddenly while the wrinkle of mirth still lay in his cheek. The deputy stroked his chin and looked thoughtful.

  “Get your gun ready,” he ordered.

  The other slipped his hand down to his gun-butt and moved his weapon to make sure that it was perfectly loose in the leather.

  “Ain’t you goin’ to take your gun out?” queried the deputy.

  “Can I do that?”

  “I reckon not,” said the deputy, and looked the stranger straight in the eyes.

  His change to deadly earnestness put a hush over the crowd.

  Across the target, not tossed easily as it had been for Pop Giersberg, but literally thrown, darted the line of white, while the gun flipped out of its holster as if it possessed life of its own and spoke. The white line ended half way to the farther side of the target, and the revolver slid again into hiding.

  A clamor of amazement broke from the crowd, but the deputy looked steadily, without enthusiasm, at the stranger.

  “Joe Cumber,” he said, when the noise fell away a little, “I guess you’ll see the sheriff. Harry, take Joe Cumber up to Pete, will you?”

  One of the bystanders jumped at the suggestion and led the other from the room, with a full half of the crowd following. The deputy remained behind, thoughtful.

  “What’s the matter?” asked one of the spectators. “You look like you’d seen a ghost.”

  “Gents,” answered the deputy, “do any of you recollect seein’ this feller before?”

  They did not.

  “They’s something queer about him,” muttered the deputy.

  “He may be word-shy,” proffered a wit, “but he sure ain’t gun-shy!”

  “When he looked at me,” said the deputy, more to himself than to the others, “it seemed to me like they was a swirl of yaller come into his eyes. Made me feel like some one had sneaked up behind me with a knife.”

  In his thoughtfulness his eyes wandered, and wandering, they fell upon the notice of the reward for the capture, dead or alive, of Daniel Barry, about five feet nine or ten, slender, with black hair and brown eyes.

  “My God!” cried the deputy.

  But then he relaxed against the counter.

  “It ain’t possible,” he murmured.

  “What ain’t possible?”

  “However, I’m goin’ to go and hang around. Gents, I got a crazy idea.”

  He had no sooner started toward the door than he seemed to gain surety out of the motion.

  “It’s him!” he cried. He turned toward the others, white of face. “Come on, all of you! It’s him! Barry!”

  But in the meantime Harry had gone on swiftly to the office of the sheriff with “Joe Cumber.” Behind him swirled the curious crowd and for their benefit he asked his questions loudly.

  “Partner, that was sure a pretty play you made. I’ve seen ’em all try out to crack them balls, but I never seen none do it the way you did—with your gun in the leather at the start. What part of the country might you be from?”

  The other answered gently: “Why, from over yonder.”

  “The T O outfit, eh?”

  “Beyond that.”

  “Up in the Gray Mountains? That so! I s’pose you been on trails like this before?”

  “Nothin’ to talk about.”

  There might have been a double meaning in this remark, and Harry looked twice to make sure that there was no guile.

  “Well, here we are.” He threw open a door which revealed a bald-headed clerk seated at a desk in a little bare room. “Billy, here’s a gent that cracked it the first whack and started his gun from the leather, by God. He—”

  “Jest kindly close the door, Harry,” said Billy. “Step in, partner. Gimme your name?”


  The door closed on the discomfited Harry, and “Joe Cumber” stood close to it, apparently driven to shrinking into the wall in his embarrassment, but while he stood there his hand fumbled behind him and turned the key in the lock, and then extracted it.

  “My name’s Joe Cumber.”

  “Joe Cumber,”—this while inscribing it.

  “Age?”

  “About thirty-two, maybe.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I don’t exactly.”

  His eyes were as vague as his words, gentle, and smiling.

  “Thirty-two?” said Billy sharply. “You look more like twenty-five to me. S’pose we split the difference, eh?”

  And with a grin he wrote: “Age twenty-two or three.”

  “Business?”

  “Trapper.”

  “Good! The sheriff is pretty keen for ’em. You gents in that game got a sort of nose for the trail, mostly. All right, Cumber, you’ll see Glass.”

  He stood at the door.

  “By the way, Cumber, is that straight about startin’ your shot with your gun in the holster?”

  “I s’pose it is.”

  “You s’pose?” grunted the clerk. “Well, come on in.”

  He banged once on the door and then threw it open. “Joe Cumber, Pete. And he drilled the ball startin’ his gun out of the leather. Here’s his card.”

  He closed the door, and once more the stranger stood almost cringing against it, and once more his fingers deftly turned the key—softly, silently—and extracted it from the lock.

  The sheriff had not looked up from the study of the card, for reading was more difficult to him than man-killing, and Joe Cumber had an opportunity to examine the room. It was hung with a score of pictures. Some large, some small, but most of them enlargements, it was apparent of kodak snapshots, for the eyes had that bleary look which comes in photographs spread over ten times their intended space. The faces had little more than bleary eyes in common, for there were bearded men, and smooth-shaven faces, and lean and fat men; there were round, cherubic countenances, and lean, hungry heads; there were squared, protruding chins, and there were chins which sloped away awkwardly toward the neck; in fact it seemed that the sheriff had collected twenty specimens to represent every phase of weakness and strength in the human physiognomy. But beneath the pictures, almost without exception, there hung weapons: rifles, revolvers, knives, placed criss-cross in a decorative manner, and it came to “Joe Cumber” that he was looking at the galaxy of the dead who had fallen by the hand of Sheriff Pete Glass. Not a face meant anything to him but he knew, instinctively, that they were the chosen bad men of the past twenty years.