The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  “Even Glani?”

  “Even Glani, save that he fears to ride my horse, and therefore he has Shakra. I am sorry, for I wish to see you together. She is like you—beautiful, delicate, and swift.”

  She urged Abra into a shortened gallop with a touch of her heel, so that the business of managing him gave her a chance to cover her confusion. She could have smiled away a compliment, but the simplicity of David meant something more.

  “Peace, Abra!” commanded the master. “Oh, unmannerly colt! It would be other than this if the wise Shakra were beneath your saddle.”

  “No, I am content with Abra. Let Shakra be for your servant.”

  “Not servant, but friend—a friend whom Glani chose for me. Consider how fickle our judgments are and how little things persuade us. Abraham is rich in words, but his face is ugly, and I prefer the smooth voice of Zacharias, though he is less wise. I have grieved for this and yet it is hard to change. But a horse is wiser than a fickle-minded man, and when Glani went to the hand of Benjamin without my order, I knew that I had found a friend.”

  She knew the secret behind that story, and now she looked at David with pity.

  “In my house you will meet Benjamin,” the master was saying thoughtfully, evidently encountering a grave problem. “I have said that little things make the judgments of men! If a young horse shies once, though he may become a true traveler and a wise head, yet his rider remembers the first jump and is ever uneasy in the saddle.”

  She nodded, wondering what lay behind the explanation.

  “Or if a snake crosses the road before a horse, at that place the horse trembles when he passes again.”

  “Yes.”

  She found it strangely pleasant to follow the simple processes of his mind.

  “It is so with Benjamin. At some time a woman crosses his way like a snake, and because of her he has come to hate all women. And when I started for the gate, even now, he warned me against you.”

  The clever mind of the gambler opened to her and she smiled at the trick.

  “Yes, it is a thing for laughter,” said David happily. “I came with a mind armed for trouble—and I find you, whom I could break between my hands.”

  He turned, casting out his arms.

  “What harm have I received from you?”

  They had reached the head of the bridge, and even as David turned a changing gust carried to them a chorus of men’s voices. David drew rein.

  “There is a death,” he said, “in my household.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The singing took on body and form as the pitch rose.

  “There is a death,” repeated David. “Abraham is dead, the oldest and the wisest of my servants. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Glory to His name!”

  Ruth was touched to the heart.

  “I am sorry,” she said simply.

  “Let us rejoice, rather, for Abraham is happy. His soul is reborn in a young body. Do you not hear them singing? Let us ride on.”

  He kept his head high and a stereotyped smile on his lips as the horses sprang into a gallop—that breath-taking gallop which made the spirit of the girl leap; but she saw his breast raise once or twice with a sigh. It was the stoicism of an Indian, she felt, and like an Indian’s was the bronze-brown skin and the long hair blowing in the wind. The lake was beside them now, and dense forest beyond opening into pleasant meadows. She was being carried back into a primitive time of which the type was the man beside her. Riding without a saddle his body gave to the swing of the gallop, and she was more conscious than ever of physical strength.

  But now the hoofs beat softly on the lawn terraces, and in a moment they had stopped before the house where the death had been. She knew at once. The empty arch into the patio of the servants’ house was eloquent, in some manner, of the life that had departed. Before it was the group of singers, all standing quiet, as though their own music had silenced them, or perhaps preparing to sing again. Connor had described the old servant, but she was not prepared for these straight, withered bodies, these bony, masklike faces, and the white heads.

  All in an instant they seemed to see her, and a flash of pleasure went from face to face. They stirred, they came toward her with glad murmurs, all except one, the oldest of them all, who remained aloof with his arms folded. But the others pressed close around her, talking excitedly to one another, as though she could not understand what they said. And she would never forget one who took her hand in both of his. The touch of his fingers was cold and as dry as parchment. “Honey child, God bless your pretty face.”

  Was this the formal talk of which Connor had warned her? A growl from David drove them back from her like leaves before a wind. He had slipped from his horse, and now walked forward.

  “It is Abraham?” he asked.

  “He is dead and glorious,” answered the chorus, and the girl trembled to hear those time-dried relics of humanity speak so cheerily of death.

  The master was silent for a moment, then: “Did he leave no message for me?”

  In place of answering the group shifted and opened a passage to the one in the rear, who stood with folded arms.

  “Elijah, you were with him?”

  “I heard his last words.”

  “And what dying message for David?”

  “Death sealed his lips while he had still much to say. To the end he was a man of many words. But first he returned thanks to our Father who breathed life into the clay.”

  “That was a proper thought, and I see that the words were words of Abraham.”

  “He gave thanks for a life of quiet ease and wise masters, and he forgave the Lord the length of years he was kept in this world.”

  “In that,” said David gravely, “I seem to hear his voice speaking. Continue.”

  “He commanded us to sing pleasantly when he was gone.”

  “I heard the singing on the lake road. It is well.”

  “Also, he bade us keep the first master in our minds, for John, he said, was the beginning.”

  At this the face of David clouded a little.

  “Continue. What word for David?”

  Something that Connor had said about the pride and sulkiness of a child came back to Ruth.

  Elijah, after hesitation, went on: “He declared that Glani is too heavy in the forehead.”

  “Yes, that is Abraham,” said the master, smiling tenderly. “He would argue even on the death bed.”

  “But a cross with Tabari would remedy that defect.”

  “Perhaps. What more?”

  “He blessed you and bade you remember and rejoice that he was gone to his wife and child.”

  “Ah?” cried David softly. His glance, wandering absently, rested on the girl for a moment, and then came back to Elijah. “His mind went back to that? What further for my ear?”

  “I remember nothing more, David.”

  “Speak!” commanded the master.

  The eyes of Elijah roved as though for help.

  “Toward the end his voice grew faint and his mind seemed to wander.”

  “Far rather tremble, Elijah, if you keep back the words he spoke, however sharp they may be. My hand is not light. Remember, and speak.”

  The fear of Elijah changed to a gloomy pride, and now he not only raised his head, but he even made a step forward and stood in dignity.

  “Death took Abraham by the throat, and yet he continued to speak. ‘Tell David that four masters cherished Abraham, but David cast him out like a dog and broke his heart, and therefore he dies. Although I bless him, God will hereafter judge him!’”

  A shudder went through the entire group, and Ruth herself was uneasy.

  “Keep your own thoughts and the words of Abraham well divided,” said David solemnly. “I know his mind and its working. Continue, but be warned.”

  “I am warned, David, but my brother Abraham is dead and my heart weeps for him!”

  “God will hereafter judge me,” said David harshly. “And what was
the further judgment of Abraham, the old man?”

  “Even this: ‘David has opened the Garden to one and therefore it will be opened to all. The law is broken. The first sin is the hard sin and the others follow easily. It is swift to run downhill. He has brought in one, and another will soon follow.’”

  “Elijah,” thundered David, “you have wrested his words to fit the thing you see.”

  “May the dead hand of Abraham strike me down if these were not his words.”

  “Had he become a prophet?” muttered David. “No, it was maundering of an old man.”

  “God speaks on the lips of the dying, David.”

  “You have said enough.”

  “Wait!”

  “You are rash, Elijah.”

  She could not see the face of David, but the terror and frenzied devotion of Elijah served her as mirror to see the wrath of the master of the Garden.

  “David has opened the gate of the Garden. The world sweeps in and shall carry away the life of Eden like a flood. All that four masters have done the fifth shall undo.”

  The strength of his ecstasy slid from Elijah and he dropped upon his knees with his head weighted toward the earth. The others were frozen in their places. One who had opened his lips to speak, perhaps to intercede for the rash Elijah, remained with his lips parted, a staring mask of fear. In them Ruth saw the rage of David Eden, and she was sickened by what she saw. She had half pitied the simplicity of this man, this gull of the clever Connor. Now she loathed him as a savage barbarian. Even these old men were hardly safe from his furies of temper.

  “Arise,” said the master at length, and she could feel his battle to control his voice. “You are forgiven, Elijah, because of your courage—yet, beware! As for that old man whose words you repeated, I shall consider him.” He turned on his heel, and Ruth saw that his face was iron.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  From the gate of the patio Connor, watching all that time in a nightmare of suspense, saw, first of all, the single figure of David come around the trees, David alone and walking. But before that shock passed he saw Glani at the heels of the master, and then, farther back, Ruth!

  She had passed the gate and two-thirds of the battle was fought and won. Yet all was not well, as he plainly saw. With long, swift steps David came over the terrace, and finally paused as if his thoughts had stopped him. He turned as Glani passed, and the girl came up to him; his extended arm halted Abra and he stood looking up to the girl and speaking. Only the faint murmur of his voice came unintelligibly to Connor, but he recognized danger in it as clearly as in the hum of bees. Suddenly the girl, answering, put out her hands as if in gesture of surrender. Another pause—it was only a matter of a second or so, but it was a space for life or death with Connor. In that interval he knew that his scheme was made or ruined. What had the girl said? Perhaps that mighty extended arm holding back Abra had frightened her, and with the wind blowing his long black hair aside, David of Eden was a figure wild enough to alarm her. Perhaps in fear of her life she had exposed the whole plan. If so, it meant broken bones for Connor.

  But now David turned again, and this time he was talking by the side of Abra as they came up the hill. He talked with many gestures, and the girl was laughing down to him.

  “God bless her!” muttered Connor impulsively. “She’s a true-blue one!”

  He remembered his part in the nick of time as they came closer, and David helped the girl down from the saddle and brought her forward. The gambler drew himself up and made his face grave with disapproval. Now or never he must prove to David that there was no shadow of a connection between him and the girl. Yet he was by no means easy. There was something forced and stereotyped in the smile of the girl that told him she had been through a crucial test and was still near the breaking point.

  David presented them to one another uneasily. He was even a little embarrassed under the accusing eye of Connor.

  “I make you known, Ruth,” he said, “to my brother Benjamin. He is that man of whom I told you.”

  “I am happy,” said the girl, “to be known to him.”

  “That much I cannot say,” replied the gambler.

  He turned upon David with outstretched arm.

  “Ah, David, I have warned you!”

  “As Abraham warned me against you, Benjamin. And dying men speak truth.”

  The counter-attack was so shrewd, so unexpected, that the gambler, for the moment, was thrown completely off his guard.

  He could only murmur: “You are the judge for yourself, David.”

  “I am. Do not think that the power is in me. But God loves the Garden and His voice is never far from me. Neither are the spirits of the four who lived here before me and made this place. When there is danger they warn me. When I am in error the voice of God corrects me. And just as I heard the voice against the woman, Ruth, and heed it not.”

  He seemed to have gathered conviction for himself, much needed conviction, as he spoke. He turned now toward the girl.

  “Be not wroth with Benjamin; and bear him no malice.”

  “I bear him none in the world,” she answered truthfully, and held out her hand.

  But Connor was still in his rôle. He folded his arms and pointedly disregarded the advance.

  “Woman, let there be peace and few words between us. My will is the will of David.”

  “There speaks my brother!” cried the master of the valley.

  “And yet,” muttered Connor, “why is she here?”

  “She came to buy a horse.”

  “But they are not sold.”

  “That is true. Yet she has traveled far and she is in great need of food and drink. Could I turn her away hungry, Benjamin?”

  “She could have been fed at the gate. She could surely have rested there.”

  It was easy to see that David was hardpressed. His eye roved eagerly to Ruth. Then a triumphant explanation sparkled in his eye.

  “It is the horse she rides, a gelding from my Garden. His lot in the world has been hard. He is scarred with the spur and the whip. I have determined to take him back, at a price. But who can arrange matters of buying and selling all in a moment? It is a matter for much talk. Therefore she is here.”

  “I am answered,” said Connor, and turning to Ruth he winked broadly.

  “It is well,” said David, “and I foresee happy days. In the meantime there is a duty before me. Abraham must be laid in his grave and I leave Ruth to your keeping, Benjamin. Bear with her tenderly for my sake.”

  He stepped to the girl.

  “You are not afraid?”

  “I am not afraid,” she answered.

  “My thoughts shall be near you. Farewell.”

  He had hardly reached the gate of the patio when Joseph, going out after finishing his labor at the fountain, passed between the gambler and the girl. Connor stopped him with a sign.

  “The whip hasn’t fallen, you see,” he said maliciously.

  “There is still much time,” replied Joseph. “And before the end it will fall. Perhaps on you. Or on that!”

  He indicated the girl with his pointing finger; his glance turned savagely from one to the other, and then he went slowly out of the patio and they were alone. She came to Connor at once and even touched his arm in her excitement.

  “What did he mean?”

  “That’s the one I told you about. The one David beat up with the whip. He’d give his eye teeth to get back at me, and he has an idea that there’s going to be hell to pay because another person has come into the valley. Bunk! But—what happened down the hill?”

  “When he stopped me? Did you see that?”

  “My heart stopped the same minute. What was it?”

  “He had just heard the last words of Abraham. When he stopped me on the hill his face was terrible. Like a wolf!”

  “I know that look in him. How did you buck up under it?”

  “I didn’t. I felt my blood turn to water and I wanted to run.”

 
“But you stuck it out—I saw! Did he say anything?”

  “He said: ‘Dying men do not lie. And I have been twice warned. Woman, why are you here?’”

  “And you?” gasped Connor. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. My head spun. I looked up the terrace. I wanted to see you, but you weren’t in sight. I felt terribly alone and absolutely helpless. If I’d had a gun, I would have reached for it.”

  “Thank God you didn’t!”

  “But you don’t know what his face was like! I expected him to tear me off the horse and smash me with his hands. All at once I wanted to tell him everything—beg him not to hurt me.” Connor groaned.

  “I knew it! I knew that was in your head!”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Good girl.”

  “He said: ‘Why are you here? What harm have you come to work in the Garden?’”

  “And you alone with him!” gasped Connor.

  “That was what did it. I was so helpless that it made me bold. Can you imagine smiling at a time like that?”

  “Were you able to?”

  “I don’t know how. It took every ounce of strength in me. But I made myself smile—straight into his face. Then I put out my hands to him all at once.

  “‘How could I harm you?’ I asked him.

  “And then you should have seen his face change and the anger break up like a cloud. I knew I was safe, then, but I was still dizzy—just as if I’d looked over a cliff—you know?”

  “And yet you rode up the hill after that laughing down to him! Ruth, you’re the gamest sport and the best pal in the world. The finest little act I ever saw on the stage or off. It was Big Time stuff. My hat’s off, but—where’d you get the nerve?”

  “I was frightened almost to death. Too much frightened for it to show. When I saw you, my strength came back.”

  “But what do you think of him?”

  “He’s—simply a savage. What do I think of an Indian?”

  “No more than that?”

  “Ben, can you pet a tiger after you’ve seen his claws?”

  He looked at her with anxiety.

  “You’re not going to break down later on—feeling as if he’s dynamite about to explode all the time?”