by Max Brand
“It’s really good stuff,” said Donnegan. “I’m not an expert on these matters; but I like the taste. Will you try it?”
It seemed that Landis dared not trust himself to speech. As though a vast and deadly hatred were gathered in him, and he feared lest it should escape in words the first time he parted his teeth.
He took the glass of liqueur and slowly poured it upon the floor. From the crowd there was a deep murmur of disapproval. And Landis, feeling that he had advanced the wrong foot in the matter, glowered scornfully about him and then stared once more at Donnegan.
“Just as you please,” said Donnegan, sipping his glass. “But remember this, my young friend, that a fool is a fool, drunk or sober.”
Landis showed his teeth, but made no other answer. And Donnegan anxiously flashed a glance at the clock. He still had three minutes. Three minutes in which he must reduce this stalwart fellow to a trembling, nervous wreck. Otherwise, he must shoot to kill, or else sit there and become a certain sacrifice for the sake of Lou Macon. Yet he controlled the muscles of his face and was still able to smile as he turned again to Landis.
“Three minutes left,” he said. “Three minutes for you to compose yourself, Landis. Think of it, man! All the good life behind you. Have you nothing to remember? Nothing to soften your mind? Why die, Landis, with a curse in your heart and a scowl on your lips?”
Once more Landis stirred his lips; but there was only the flash of his teeth; he maintained his resolute silence.
“Ah,” murmured Donnegan, “I am sorry to see this. And before all your admirers, Landis. Before all your friends. Look at them scattered there under the lights and in the shadows. No farewell word for them? Nothing kindly to say? Are you going to leave them without a syllable of goodfellowship?”
“Confound you!” muttered Landis.
There was another hum from the crowd; it was partly wonder, partly anger. Plainly they were not pleased with Jack Landis on this day.
Donnegan shook his head sadly.
“I hoped,” he said, “that I could teach you how to die. But I fail. And yet you should be grateful to me for one thing, Jack. I have kept you from being a murderer in cold blood. I kept you from killing a defenseless man as you intended to do when you walked up to me a moment ago.”
He smiled genially in mockery, and there was a scowl on the face of Landis.
“Two minutes,” said Donnegan.
Leaning back in his chair, he yawned. For a whole minute he did not stir.
“One minute?” he murmured inquisitively.
And there was a convulsive shudder through the limbs of Landis. It was the first sign that he was breaking down under the strain. There remained only one minute in which to reduce him to a nervous wreck!
The strain was telling in other places. Donnegan turned and saw in the shadow and about the edges of the room a host of drawn, tense faces and burning eyes. Never while they lived would they forget that scene.
“And now that the time is close,” said Donnegan, “I must look to my gun.”
He made a gesture; how it was, no one was swift enough of eye to tell, but a gun appeared in his hand. At the flash of it, Landis’ weapon leaped up to the mark and his face convulsed. But Donnegan calmly spun the cylinder of his revolver and held it toward Landis, dangling from his forefinger under the guard.
“You see?” he said to Landis. “Clean as a whistle, and easy as a girl’s smile. I hate a stiff action, Jack.”
And Landis slowly allowed the muzzle of his own gun to sink. For the first time his eyes left the eyes of Donnegan, and sinking, inch by inch, stared fascinated at the gun in the hand of the enemy.
“Thirty seconds,” said Donnegan by way of conversation.
Landis jerked up his head and his eyes once more met the eyes of Donnegan, but this time they were wide, and the pointed glance of Donnegan sank into them. The lips of Landis parted. His tongue tremblingly moistened them.
“Keep your nerve,” said Donnegan in an undertone.
“You hound!” gasped Landis.
“I knew it,” said Donnegan sadly. “You’ll die with a curse on your lips.”
He added: “Ten seconds, Landis!”
And then he achieved his third step toward victory, for Landis jerked his head around, saw the minute hand almost upon its mark, and swung back with a shudder toward Donnegan. From the crowd there was a deep breath.
And then Landis was seen to raise the muzzle of his gun again, and crouch over it, leveling it straight at Donnegan. He, at least, would send his bullet straight to the mark when that first chime went humming through the big room.
But Donnegan? He made his last play to shatter the nerve of Landis. With the minute hand on the very mark, he turned carelessly, the revolver still dangling by the trigger guard, and laughed toward the crowd.
And out of the crowd there came a deep, sobbing breath of heartbreaking suspense.
It told on Landis. Out of the corner of his eye Donnegan saw the muscles of the man’s face sag and tremble; saw him allow his gun to fall, in imitation of Donnegan, to his side; and saw the long arm quivering.
And then the chime rang, with a metallic, sharp click and then a long and reverberant clanging.
With a gasp Landis whipped up his gun and fired. Once, twice, again, the weapon crashed. And, to the eternal wonder of all who saw it, at a distance of five paces Landis three times missed his man. But Donnegan, sitting back with a smile, raised his own gun almost with leisure, unhurried, dropped it upon the mark, and sent a forty-five slug through the right shoulder of Jack Landis.
The blow of the slug, like the punch of a strong man’s fist, knocked the victim out of his chair to the floor. He lay clutching at his shoulder.
“Gentlemen,” said Donnegan, rising, “is there a doctor here?”
CHAPTER 24
That was the signal for the rush that swept across the floor and left a flood of marveling men around the fallen Landis. On the outskirts of this tide, Donnegan stepped up to two men, Joe Rix and the Pedlar. They greeted him with expectant glances.
“Gentlemen,” said Donnegan, “will you step aside?”
They followed him to a distance from the clamoring group.
“I have to thank you,” said Donnegan.
“For what?”
“For changing your minds,” said Donnegan, and left them.
And afterward the Pedlar murmured with an oddly twisted face: “Cat-eye, Joe. He can see in the dark! But I told you he was worth savin’.”
“Speakin’ in general,” said Joe, “which you ain’t hardly ever wrong when you get stirred up about a thing.”
“He’s something new,” the Pedlar said wisely.
“Ay, he’s rare.”
“But talkin’ aside, suppose he was to meet up with Lord Nick?”
The smile of Joe Rix was marvelously evil.
“You got a great mind for great things,” he declared. “You ought to of been in politics.”
In the meantime the doctor had been found. The wound had been cleansed. It was a cruel one, for the bullet had torn its way through flesh and sinew, and for many a week the fighting arm of Jack Landis would be useless. It had, moreover, carried a quantity of cloth into the wound, and it was almost impossible to cleanse the hole satisfactorily. As for the bullet itself, it had whipped cleanly through, at that short distance making nothing of its target.
A door was knocked off its hinges. But before the wounded man was placed upon it, Lebrun appeared at the door into Milligan’s. He was never a very cheery fellow in appearance, and now he looked like a demoniac. He went straight to Joe Rix and the skeleton form of the Pedlar. He raised one finger as he looked at them.
“I’ve heard,” said Lebrun. “Lord Nick likewise shall hear.”
Joe Rix changed color. He bustled about, together with the Pedlar, and lent a hand in carrying the wounded man to the house of Lebrun, for Nelly Lebrun was to be the nurse of Landis.
In the meantime, Donnegan went up the hill wit
h big George behind him. Already he was a sinisterly marked man. Working through the crowd near Lebrun’s gambling hall, a drunkard in the midst of a song stumbled against him. But the sight of the man with whom he had collided, sobered him as swiftly as the lash of a whip across his face. It was impossible for him, in that condition, to grow pale. But he turned a vivid purple.
“Sorry, Mr. Donnegan.”
Donnegan, with a shrug of his shoulders, passed on. The crowd split before him, for they had heard his name. There were brave men, he knew, among them. Men who would fight to the last drop of blood rather than be shamed, but they shrank from Donnegan without shame, as they would have shrunk from the coming of a rattler had their feet been bare. So he went easily through the crowd with big George in his wake, walking proudly.
For George had stood to one side and watched Donnegan indomitably beat down the will of Jack Landis, and the sight would live in his mind forever. Indeed, if Donnegan had bidden the sun to stand in the heavens, the big man would have looked for obedience. That the forbearance of Donnegan should have been based on a desire to serve a girl certainly upset the mind of George, but it taught him an amazing thing—that Donnegan was capable of affection.
The terrible Donnegan went on. In his wake the crowd closed slowly, for many had paused to look after the little man. Until they came to the outskirts of the town and climbed the hill toward the two shacks. The one was, of course, dark. But the shack in which Lou Macon lived burst with light. Donnegan paused to consider this miracle. He listened, and he heard voices—the voice of a man, laughing loudly. Thinking something was wrong, he hurried forward and called loudly.
What he saw when he was admitted made him speechless. Colonel Macon, ensconced in his invalid chair, faced the door, and near him was Lou Macon. Lou rose, half-frightened by the unexpected interruption, but the liquid laughter of the colonel set all to rights at once.
“Come in, Donnegan. Come in, lad,” said the colonel.
“I heard a man’s voice,” Donnegan said half apologetically. The sick color began to leave his face, and relief swept over it slowly. “I thought something might be wrong. I didn’t think of you.” And looking down, as all men will in moments of relaxation from a strain, he did not see the eyes of Lou Macon grow softly luminous as they dwelt upon him.
“Come in, George,” went on the colonel, “and make yourself comfortable in the kitchen. Close the door. Sit down, Donnegan. When your letter came I saw that I was needed here. Lou, have you looked into our friend’s cabin? No? Nothing like a woman’s touch to give a man the feeling of homeliness, Lou. Step over to Donnegan’s cabin and put it to rights. Yes, I know that George takes care of it, but George is one thing, and your care will be another. Besides, I must be alone with him for a moment. Man talk confuses a girl, Lou. You shouldn’t listen to it.”
She withdrew with that faint, dreamy smile with which she so often heard the instructions of her father; as though she were only listening with half of her mind. When she was gone, though the door to the kitchen stood wide open, and big George was in it, the colonel lowered his bass voice so successfully that it was as safe as being alone with Donnegan.
“And now for facts,” he began.
“But,” said Donnegan, “how—that chair—how in the world have you come here?”
The colonel shook his head.
“My dear boy, you grieve and disappoint me. The manner in which a thing is done is not important. Mysteries are usually simply explained. As for my small mystery—a neighbor on the way to The Corner with a wagon stopped in, and I asked him to take me along. So here I am. But now for your work here, lad?”
“Bad,” said Donnegan.
“I gathered you had been unfortunate. And now you have been fighting?”
“You have heard?”
“I see it in your eye, Donnegan. When a man has been looking fear in the face for a time, an image of it remains in his eyes. They are wider, glazed with the other thing.”
“It was forced on me,” said Donnegan. “I have shot Landis.”
He was amazed to see the colonel was vitally affected. His lips remained parted over his next word, and one eyelid twitched violently. But the spasm passed over quickly. When he raised his perfect hands and pressed them together just under his chin. He smiled in a most winning manner that made the blood of Donnegan run cold.
“Donnegan,” he said softly, “I see that I have misjudged you. I underestimated you. I thought, indeed, that your rare qualities were qualified by painful weaknesses. But now I see that you are a man, and from this moment we shall act together with open minds. So you have done it? Tush, then I need not have taken my trip. The work is done; the mines come to me as the heir of Jack. And yet, poor boy, I pity him! He misjudged me; he should not have ventured to this deal with Lord Nick and his compatriots!”
“Wait,” exclaimed Donnegan. “You’re wrong; Landis is not dead.”
Once more the colonel was checked, but this time the alteration in his face was no more than a comma’s pause in a long balanced sentence. It was impossible to obtain more than one show of emotion from him in a single conversation.
“Not dead? Well, Donnegan, that is unfortunate. And after you had punctured him you had no chance to send home the finishing shot?”
Donnegan merely watched the colonel and tapped his bony finger against the point of his chin.
“Ah,” murmured the colonel, “I see another possibility. It is almost as good—it may even be better than his death. You have disabled him, and having done this you at once take him to a place where he shall be under your surveillance—this, in fact, is a very comfortable outlook—for me and my interests. But for you, Donnegan, how the devil do you benefit by having Jack flat on his back, sick, helpless, and in a perfect position to excite all the sympathies of Lou?”
Now, Donnegan had known cold-blooded men in his day, but that there existed such a man as the colonel had never come into his mind. He looked upon the colonel, therefore, with neither disgust nor anger, but with a distant and almost admiring wonder. For perfect evil always wins something akin to admiration from more common people.
“Well,” continued the colonel, a little uneasy under this silent scrutiny—silence was almost the only thing in the world that could trouble him—“well, Donnegan, my lad, this is your plan, is it not?”
“To shoot down Landis, then take possession of him and while I nurse him back to health hold a gun—metaphorically speaking—to his head and make him do as I please: sign some lease, say, of the mines to you?”
The colonel shifted himself to a more comfortable position in his chair, brought the tips of his fingers together under his vast chin, and smiled benevolently upon Donnegan.
“It is as I thought,” he murmured. “Donnegan, you are rare; you are exquisite!”
“And you,” said Donnegan, “are a scoundrel.”
“Exactly. I am very base.” The colonel laughed. “You and I alone can speak with intimate knowledge of me.” His chuckle shook all his body, and set the folds of his face quivering. His mirth died away when he saw Donnegan come to his feet.
“Eh?” he called.
“Good-by,” said Donnegan.
“But where—Landis—Donnegan, what devil is in your eye?”
“A foolish devil, Colonel Macon. I surrender the benefits of all my work for you and go to make sure that you do not lay your hands upon Jack Landis.”
The colonel opened and closed his lips foolishly like a fish gasping silently out of water. It was rare indeed for the colonel to appear foolish.
“In heaven’s name, Donnegan!”
The little man smiled. He had a marvelously wicked smile, which came from the fact that his lips could curve while his eyes remained bright and straight, and malevolently unwrinkled. He laid his hand on the knob of the door.
“Donnegan,” cried the colonel, gray of face, “give me one minute.”
CHAPTER 25
Donnegan stepped to a chair and sat dow
n. He took out his watch and held it in his hand, studying the dial, and the colonel knew that his time limit was taken literally.
“I swear to you,” he said, “that if you can help me to the possession of Landis while he is ill, I shall not lay a finger upon him or harm him in any way.”
“You swear?” said Donnegan with that ugly smile.
“My dear boy, do you think I am reckless enough to break a promise I have given to you?”
The cynical glance of Donnegan probed the colonel to the heart, but the eyes of the fat man did not wince. Neither did he speak again, but the two calmly stared at each other. At the end of the minute, Donnegan slipped the watch into his pocket.
“I am ready to listen to reason,” he said. And the colonel passed one of his strong hands across his forehead.
“Now,” and he sighed, “I feel that the crisis is passed. With a man of your caliber, Donnegan, I fear a snap judgment above all things. Since you give me a chance to appeal to your reason I feel safe. As from the first, I shall lay my cards upon the table. You are fond of Lou. I took it for granted that you would welcome a chance to brush Landis out of your path. It appears that I am wrong. I admit my error. Only fools cling to convictions; wise men are ready to meet new viewpoints. Very well. You wish to spare Landis for reasons of your own which I do not pretend to fathom. Perhaps, you pity him; I cannot tell. Now, you wonder why I wish to have Landis in my care if I do not intend to put an end to him and thereby become owner of his mines? I shall tell you frankly. I intend to own the mines, if not through the death of Jack, then through a legal act signed by the hand of Jack.”
“A willing signature?” asked Donnegan, calmly.
A shadow came and went across the face of the colonel, and Donnegan caught his breath. There were times when he felt that if the colonel possessed strength of body as well as strength of mind even he, Donnegan, would be afraid of the fat man.
“Willing or unwilling,” said the colonel, “he shall do as I direct!”
“Without force?”
“Listen to me,” said the colonel. “You and I are not children, and therefore we know that ordinary men are commanded rather by fear of what may happen to them than by being confronted with an actual danger. I have told you that I shall not so much as raise the weight of a finger against Jack Landis. I shall not. But a whisper adroitly put in his ear may accomplish the same ends.” He added with a smile. “Personally, I dislike physical violence. In that, Mr. Donnegan, we belong to opposite schools of action.”