The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  Presently La Roche and Clune came in. They had been talking together again. Andrew could tell by the manner in which they separated, as soon as they entered the room, and by their voices, which they made loud and cheerful; and, also, by the fact that they avoided looking at each other. They were striving patently to prove that there was nothing between them; and if Andrew had been on guard, now he became tinglingly so.

  They arranged their bunks; Larry la Roche took from his vest a pipe with a small bowl and a long stem and sat down cross-legged to smoke. Andrew suggested that Larry produce the contents of his saddlebag and share the spoils of war.

  He brought it out willingly enough and spilled it out on the improvised table, a glittering mass of gold trinkets, watches, jewels. He picked out of the mass a chain of diamonds and spread it out on his snaky fingers so that the light could play on it. Andrew knew nothing about gems, but he knew that the chain must be worth a great deal of money.

  “This,” said Larry, “is my share. You gents can have the rest and split it up.”

  “A nice set of sparklers,” nodded Clune, “but there’s plenty left to satisfy me.”

  “What you think,” declared Scottie, “ain’t of any importance, Joe. It’s what the chief thinks that counts. Is it square, Lanning?”

  Andrew flushed at the appeal and the ugly looks which La Roche and Clune cast toward him. He could have stifled Scottie for that appeal, and yet Scottie was smiling in the greatest apparent good nature and belief in their leader. His face was flushed, but his lips were bloodless. Alcohol always affected him in that manner.

  “I don’t know the value of the stones,” said Andrew.

  “Don’t you?” murmured Scottie. “I forgot. Thought maybe you would. That was something that Allister did know.” The new leader saw a flash of glances toward Scottie, but the latter continued to eye the captain with a steady and innocent look.

  “Scottie,” decided Andrew instantly, “is my chief enemy.”

  If he could detach one man to his side all would be well. Two against three would be a simple thing, as long as he was one of the two. But four against one—and such a four as these—was hopeless odds. There seemed little chance of getting Joe Clune. There remained only Jeff Rankin as his possibly ally, and already he had stepped on Jeff’s toes sorely, by making the tired giant stand guard. He thought of all these things, of course, in a flash. And then in answer to his thoughts Jeff Rankin appeared. His heavy footfall crashed inside the door. He stopped, panting, and, in spite of his news, paused to blink at the flash of jewels.

  “It’s comin’,” said Jeff. “Boys, get your guns and scatter out of the cabin. Duck that light! Hal Dozier is comin’ up the valley.”

  There was not a single exclamation, but the lights went out as if by magic; there were a couple of light, hissing sounds, such as iron makes when it is whipped swiftly across leather.

  “How’d you know him by this light?” asked Larry la Roche, as they went out of the door. Outside they found everything brilliant with the white moonshine of the mountains.

  “Nobody but Hal Dozier rides twistin’ that way in the saddle. I’d tell him in a thousand. It’s old wounds that makes him ride like that. We got ten minutes. He’s takin’ the long way up the cañon. And they ain’t anybody with him.”

  “If he’s come alone,” said Andrew, “he’s come for me and not for the rest of you.”

  No one spoke. Then Larry la Roche: “He wants to make it man to man. That’s clear. That’s why he pulled up his hoss and waited for Allister to make the first move for his gun. It’s a clean challenge to some one of us.”

  Andrew saw his chance and used it mercilessly.

  “Which one of you is willing to take the challenge?” he asked. “Which one of you is willing to ride down the cañon and meet him alone? La Roche, I’ve heard you curse Dozier.”

  But Larry la Roche answered: “What’s this fool talk about takin’ a challenge? I say, string out behind the hills and pot him with rifles.”

  “One man, and we’re five,” said Jeff Rankin. “It ain’t sportin’, Larry. I hate to hear you say that. We’d be despised all over the mountains if we done it. He’s makin’ his play with a lone hand, and we’ve got to meet him the same way. Eh, chief?”

  It was sweet to Andrew to hear that appeal. And he saw them turn one by one toward him in the moonlight and wait. It was his first great tribute. He looked over those four wolfish figures and felt his heart swelling.

  “Wish me luck, boys,” he said, and without another word he turned and went down the hillside.

  The others watched him with amazement. He felt it rather than saw it, and it kept a tingle in his blood. He felt, also, that they were spreading out to either side to get a clear view of the fight that was to follow, and it occurred to him that, even if Hal Dozier killed him, there would not be one chance in a thousand of Hal’s getting away. Four deadly rifles would be covering him.

  It must be that a sort of madness had come on Dozier, advancing in this manner, unsupported by a posse. Or, perhaps, he had no idea that the outlaws could be so close. He expected a daylight encounter high up the mountains.

  But Andrew went swiftly down the ravine.

  Broken cliffs, granite boulders jumped up on either side of him, and the rocks were pale and glimmering under the moon. This one valley seemed to receive the light; the loftier mountains rolling away on each side were black as jet, with sharp, ragged outlines against the sky. It was a cold light, and the chill of it went through Andrew. He was afraid, afraid as he had been when Buck Heath faced him in Martindale, or when Bill Dozier ran him down, or when the famous Sandy cornered him. His fingers felt brittle, and his breath came and went in short gasps, drawn into the upper part of his lungs only.

  Behind him, like an electric force pushing him on, the outlaws watched his steps. They, also, were shuddering with fear, and he knew it.

  Dozier was coming, fresh from another kill.

  “Only one man I’d think twice about meeting,” Allister had said in the old days, and he had been right. Yet there were thousands who had sworn that Allister was invincible—that he would never fall before a single man.

  He thought, too, of the lean face and the peculiar, set eye of Dozier. The man had no fear, he had no nerves; he was a machine, and death was his business.

  And was he, Andrew Lanning, unknown until the past few months, now going down to face destruction, as full of fear as a girl trembling at the dark? What was it that drew them together, so unfairly matched?

  He could still see only the white haze of the moonshine before him, but now there was the clicking of hoofs on the rock. Dozier was coming. Andrew walked squarely out into the middle of the ravine and waited. He had set his teeth. The nerves on the bottom of his feet were twitching. Something freezing cold was beginning at the tips of his fingers. How long would it take Dozier to come?

  An interminable time. The hoofbeats actually seemed to fade out and draw away at one time. Then they began again very near him, and now they stopped. Had Dozier seen him around the elbow curve? That heartbreaking instant passed, and the clicking began again. Then the rider came slowly in view. First there was the nodding head of the cow pony, then the foot in the stirrup, then Hal Dozier riding a little twisted in the saddle—a famous characteristic of his.

  He came on closer and closer. He began to seem huge on the horse. Was he blind not to see the figure that waited for him?

  A voice that was not his, that he did not recognize, leaped out from between his teeth and tore his throat: “Dozier!”

  The cow pony halted with a start; the rider jerked straight in his saddle; the echo of the call barked back from some angling cliff face down the ravine. All that before Dozier made his move. He had dropped the reins, and Andrew, with a mad intention of proving that he himself did not make the first move toward his weapon, had folded his arms.

  He did not move through the freezing instant that followed. Not until there was a convulsive je
rk of Dozier’s elbow did he stir his folded arms. Then his right arm loosened, and the hand flashed down to his holster.

  Was Dozier moving with clogged slowness, or was it that he had ceased to be a body, that he was all brain and hair-trigger nerves making every thousandth part of a second seem a unit of time? It seemed to Andrew that the marshal’s hand dragged through its work; to those who watched from the sides of the ravine, there was a flash of fire from his gun before they saw even the flash of the steel out of the holster. The gun spat in the hand of Dozier, and something jerked at the shirt of Andrew beside his neck. He himself had fired only once, and he knew that the shot had been too high and to the right of his central target; yet he did not fire again. Something strange was happening to Hal Dozier. His head had nodded forward as though in mockery of the bullet; his extended right hand fell slowly, slowly; his whole body began to sway and lean toward the right. Not until that moment did Andrew know that he had shot the marshal through the body.

  He raced to the side of the cattle pony, and, as the horse veered away, Hal Dozier dropped limply into his arms. He lay with his limbs sprawling at odd angles beside him. His muscles seemed paralyzed, but his eyes were bright and wide, and his face perfectly composed.

  “There’s luck for you,” said Hal Dozier calmly. “I pulled it two inches to the right, or I would have broken your neck with the slug—anyway, I spoiled your shirt.”

  The cold was gone from Andrew, and he felt his heart thundering and shaking his body. He was repeating like a frightened child, “For God’s sake, Hal, don’t die—don’t die.”

  The paralyzed body did not move, but the calm voice answered him: “You fool! Finish me before your gang comes and does it for you!”

  CHAPTER 38

  There was a rush of footsteps behind and around him, a jangle of voices, and there were the four huddled over Hal Dozier. Andrew had risen and stepped back, silently thanking God that it was not a death. He heard the voices of the four like voices in a dream.

  “A clean one.” “A nice bit of work.” “Dozier, are you thinkin’ of Allister, curse you?” “D’you remember Hugh Wiley now?” “D’you maybe recollect my pal, Bud Swain? Think about ’em, Dozier, while you’re dyin’!” The calm eyes traveled without hurry from face to face. And curiosity came to Andrew, a cool, deadly curiosity. He stepped among the gang.

  “He’s not fatally hurt,” he said. “What d’you intend to do with him?”

  “You’re all wrong, chief,” said Larry la Roche, and he grinned at Andrew. His submission now was perfect and complete. There was even a sort of worship in the bright eyes that looked at the new leader. “I hate to say it, but right as you mos’ gener’ly are, you’re wrong this time. He’s done. He don’t need no more lookin’ to. Leave him be for an hour and he’ll be finished. Also, that’ll give him a chance to think. He needs a chance. Old Curley had a chance to think—took him four hours to kick out after Dozier plugged him. I heard what he had to say, and it wasn’t pretty. I think maybe it’d be sort of interestin’ to hear what Dozier has to say. Long about the time he gets thirsty. Eh, boys?”

  There was a snarl from the other three as they looked down at the wounded man, who did not speak a word. And Andrew knew that he was indeed alone with that crew, for the man whom he had just shot down was nearer to him than the members of Allister’s gang.

  He spoke suddenly: “Jeff, take his head; Clune, take his feet. Carry him up to the cabin.”

  They only stared at him.

  “Look here, captain,” said Scottie in a soft voice, just a trifle thickened by whiskey, “are you thinking of taking him up there and tying him up so that he’ll live through this?”

  And again the other three snarled softly.

  “You murdering hounds!” said Andrew.

  That was all. They looked at each other; they looked at the new leader. And the sight of his white face and his nervous right hand was too much for them. They took up the marshal and carried him to the cabin, his pony following like a dog behind. They brought him, without asking for directions, straight into the little rear room—Andrew’s room. It was a sufficiently intelligible way of saying that this was his work and none of theirs. And not a hand lifted to aid him while he went to work with the bandaging. He knew little about such work, but the marshal himself, in a rather faint, but perfectly steady voice, gave directions. And in the painful cleaning of the wound he did not murmur once. Neither did he express the slightest gratitude. He kept following Andrew about the room with coldly curious eyes.

  In the next room the voices of the four were a steady, rumbling murmur. Now and then the glance of the marshal wandered to the door. When the bandaging was completed, he asked, “Do you know you’ve started a job you can’t finish?”

  “Ah?” murmured Andrew.

  “Those four,” said the marshal, “won’t let you.”

  Andrew smiled.

  “Are you easier now?”

  “Don’t bother about me. I’ll tell you what—I wish you’d get me a drink of water.”

  “I’ll send one of the boys.”

  “No, get it yourself. I want to say something to them while you’re gone.”

  Andrew had risen up from his knees. He now studied the face of the marshal steadily.

  “You want ’em to come in here and drill you, eh?” he said. “Why?”

  The other nodded.

  “I’ve given up hope once; I’ve gone through the hardest part of dying; let them finish the job now.”

  “Tomorrow you’ll feel differently.”

  “Will I?” asked the marshal. All at once his eyes went yellow with hate. “I go back to the desert—I go to Martindale—people I pass on the street whisper as I go by. They’ll tell over and over how I went down. And a kid did it—a raw kid!”

  He closed his eyes in silent agony. Then he looked up more keenly than before. “How’ll they know that it was luck—that my gun stuck in the holster—and that you jumped me on the draw?”

  “You lie,” said Andrew calmly. “Your gun came out clean as a whistle, and I waited for you, Dozier. You know I did.”

  The pain in the marshal’s face became a ghastly thing to see. At last he could speak.

  “A sneak always lies well,” he replied, as he sneered at Lanning.

  He went on, while Andrew sat shivering with passion. “And any fool can get in a lucky shot now and then. But, when I’m out of this, I’ll hunt you down again and I’ll plant you full of lead, my son! You can lay to that!”

  The hard breathing of Andrew gradually subsided.

  “It won’t work, Dozier,” he said quietly. “You can’t make me mad enough to shoot a man who’s down. You can’t make me murder you.”

  The marshal closed his eyes again, while his breathing was beginning to grow fainter, and there was an unpleasant rattle in the hollow of his throat. Andrew went into the next room.

  “Scottie,” he said, “will you let me have your flask?”

  Scottie smiled at him.

  “Not for what you’d use it for, Lanning,” he said.

  Andrew picked up a cup and shoved it across the table.

  “Pour a little whisky in that, please,” he said.

  Scottie looked up and studied him. Then he tipped his flask and poured a thin stream into the cup until it was half full. Andrew went back toward the door, the cup in his left hand. He backed up, keeping his face steadily toward the four, and kicked open the door behind him.

  War, he knew, had been declared. Then he raised the marshal’s head and gave him a sip of the fiery stuff. It cleared the face of the wounded man.

  Then Andrew rolled down his blankets before the door, braced a small stick against it, so that the sound would be sure to waken him if anyone tried to enter, and laid down for the night. He was almost asleep when the marshal said: “Are you really going to stick it out, Andy?”

  “Yes.”

  “In spite of what I’ve said?”

  “I suppose you meant it all
? You’d hunt me down and kill me like a dog after you get back on your feet?”

  “Like a dog.”

  “If you think it over and see things clearly,” replied Andrew, “you’ll see that what I’ve done I’ve done for my own sake, and not for yours.”

  “How do you make that out—with four men in the next room ready to stick a knife in your back—if I know anything about ’em?”

  “I’ll tell you: I owe nothing to you, but a man owes a lot to himself, and I’m going to pay myself in full.”

  CHAPTER 39

  He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but, though he came to the verge of oblivion, the voices from the other room finally waked him. They had been changing subtly during the past hours and now they rose, and there was a ring to them that troubled Andrew.

  He could make out their talk part of the time; and then again they lowered their voices to rumbling growls. At such times he knew that they were speaking of him, and the hum of the undertone was more ominous than open threats. When they talked aloud there was a confused clamor; when they were more hushed there was always the oily murmur of Scottie’s voice, taking the lead and directing the current of the talk.

  The liquor was going the rounds fast, now. Before they left for the Murchison Pass they had laid in a comfortable supply, but apparently Allister had cached a quantity of the stuff at the Twin Eagles shack. Of one thing Andrew was certain, that four such practiced whisky drinkers would never let their party degenerate into a drunken rout; and another thing was even more sure—that Scottie Macdougal would keep his head better than the best of the others. But what the alcohol would do would be to cut the leash of constraint and dig up every strong passion among them. For instance, Jeff Rankin was by far the most equable of the lot, but, given a little whisky, Jeff became a conscienceless devil.