by Max Brand
But to have understood, she would have had to know how that life began in a city slum. She would have had to see the career of the sneak thief which culminated in the episode of the lumber camp eight years before. She would have had to understand how the lesson from the hand of big Sinclair had begun the change which transformed the sneak into the dangerous man of action. And now the second change had come. For Arizona had made the unique discovery that he could be ashamed!
He would have laughed had another told him. Virtue was a name and no more to the fat man. But in spite of himself those eight years under free skies had altered him. He had been growing when he thought he was standing still. When the eye plunges forty miles from mountain to mountain, through crystal-clear air, the mind is enlarged. He had lived exclusively among hard-handed men, rejoicing in a strength greater than their own. He suddenly found that the feeble hand from which he had so easily torn the weapon a moment before, had in an instant acquired strength to make or break him.
All that Jig could discern of this was that her life was no longer in danger, and that her enemy had been disarmed. But she was not prepared for what followed.
Dragging off his hat, as if he acted reluctantly, his eyes sank until they rested on the ground at her feet.
“Lady,” he said, “I didn’t know. I didn’t even dream what you was.”
CHAPTER 29
Gradually she found her breath and greater self-possession.
“You mean I’m free?” she asked him. “You won’t make me go into Sour Creek?”
His face twisted as if in pain. “Make you?” he asked violently. “I’d blow the head off the first one that tried to make you take a step.”
Suddenly it seemed to her that all this was ordered and arranged, that some mysterious Providence had sent this man here to save her from Sandersen and all the horror that the future promised, just as Sinclair had saved her once before from a danger which he himself had half created.
“I got this to say,” went on Arizona, struggling for the words. “Looks to me like you might have need of a friend to help you along, wherever you’re going.” He shook his thick shoulders. “Sure gives me a jolt to think of what you must have gone through, wandering around here all by yourself! I sure don’t see how you done it!”
And all this time the man whom Arizona had killed, was lying face up to the morning, hardly a pace behind him! But she dared not try to analyze this man. She could only feel vaguely that an ally had been given her, an ally of strength. He, too, must have sensed what was in her mind.
“You’ll be wanting this, I reckon.”
Returning the Colt to her, he slowly dragged his glance from the ground and let it cross her face for a fleeting instant. She slipped the gun back into its holster.
“And now suppose we go down the hill and get your hoss?”
Evidently he was painfully eager to get the dead man out of sight. Yet he paused while he picked up her saddle.
“They’ll be along pretty pronto—the sheriff and his men. They’ll take care of—him.”
Leading the way down to her hobbled horse he saddled it swiftly, while she stood aside and watched. When he was done he turned to her.
“Maybe we better be starting. It wouldn’t come in very handy for Kern to find us here, eh?”
Obediently she came. With one hand he held the stirrup, while the other steadied her weight by the elbow, as she raised her foot. In spite of herself she shivered at his touch. A moment later, from the saddle, she was looking down into a darkly crimsoned face. Plainly he had understood that impulse of aversion, but he said nothing.
There was a low neigh from the other side of the hill in answer to his soft whistle, and then out of the trees came a beautifully formed roan mare, with high head and pricking ears. With mincing steps she went straight to her master, and Jig saw the face of the other brighten. But he was gloomy again by the time he had swung into the saddle.
“Now,” he said, “where away?”
“You’re coming with me?” she asked, with a new touch of alarm. She regretted her tone the moment she had spoken. She saw Arizona wince.
“Lady,” he said, “suppose I come clean to you? I been in my time about everything that’s bad. I ain’t done a killing except squarely. Sinclair taught me that. And you got to allow that what I done to Sandersen was after I give him all the advantage in the draw. I took even chances, and I give him better than an even break. Ain’t that correct?”
She nodded, fascinated by the struggle in his face between pride and shame and anger.
“Worse’n that,” he went on, forcing out the bitter truth. “I been everything down to a sharp with the cards, which is tolerable low. But I got this to say: I’m playing clean with you. I’ll prove it before I’m done. If you want me to break loose and leave you alone, say the word, and I’m gone. If you want me to stay and help where I can help, say the word, and I stay and take orders. Come out with it!”
Gathering his reins, he sat very straight and looked her fairly and squarely in the eye, for the first time since he had discovered the truth about Cold Feet. In spite of herself Jig found that she was drawn to trust the fat man. She let a smile grow, let her glance become as level and as straight as his own. She reined her horse beside his and stretched out her hand.
“I know you mean what you say,” said Jig. “And I don’t care what you have been in the past. I do need a friend—desperately. Riley Sinclair says that a friend is the most sacred thing in the world. I don’t ask that much, but of all the men I know you are the only one who can help me as I need to be helped. Will you shake hands for a new start between us?”
“Lady,” said the cowpuncher huskily, “this sure means a lot to me. And the—other things—you’ll forget?”
“I never knew you,” said the girl, smiling at him again, “until this moment.”
“Oh, it’s a go!” cried Arizona. “Now try me out!”
Jig saw his self-respect come back to him, saw his eye grow bright and clear. Arizona was like a man with a new “good resolution.” He wanted to test his strength and astonish someone with his change.
“There is one great thing in which I need help,” she said.
“Good! And what’s that?”
“Riley Sinclair is in jail.”
“H’m,” muttered Arizona. “He ain’t in on a serious charge. Let him stay a while.” Stiffening in the saddle he stared at her. “Does Sinclair know?”
“What?” asked the girl, but she flushed in spite of herself.
“That you ain’t a man?”
“Yes.”
For a moment he considered her crimson face gloomily. “You and Sinclair was sort of pals, I guess,” he said at length.
Faintly she replied in the affirmative, and her secret was written as clearly as sunlight on her face. Yet she kept her eyes raised bravely.
As for Arizona, the newborn hope died in him, and then flickered back to an evil life. If Sinclair was in his way, why give up? Why not remove this obstacle as he had removed others in his time. The hurrying voice of the girl broke in on his somber thoughts.
“He went to Sour Creek to help me as soon as he found out that I was not a man. He put himself in terrible danger there on my account.”
“Did Cartwright have something to do with you and him?”
“Yes.”
But Arizona made no effort to read her riddle.
She went on: “Now that he has been taken, I know what has happened. To keep me out of danger he told—”
“That you’re a woman?”
“No, he wouldn’t do that, because he knows that is the last thing in the world that I want revealed. But he’s told them that he killed Quade, and now he’s in danger of his life.”
“Let’s ride on,” said Arizona. “I got to think a pile.”
She did not speak, while the horses wound down the steep side of the mountain. Mile after mile rose behind them. The sun increased in power, flashing on the leaves of the trees a
nd beginning to burn the face with its slanting heat. Now and then she ventured a side-glance at Arizona, and always she found him in a brown study. Vaguely she knew that he was fighting the old battle of good and evil in the silence of the morning. Finally he stopped his horse and turned to her again.
They were in the foothills by this time, and they had drawn out from the trees to a little level space on the top of a rise. The morning mist was thinning rapidly in the heart of the hollow beneath them. Far off, they heard the lowing of cows being driven into the pasture land after the morning milking, and they could make out tiny figures in the fields.
“Lady,” Arizona was saying to her, “they’s one gent in the world that I’ve got an eight-year-old grudge agin’. I’ve swore to get him sooner or later, and that gent is Riley Sinclair. Make it something else, and I’ll work for you till the skin’s off my hands. But Sinclair—” He stopped, studying her intently. “Will you tell me one thing? How much does Sinclair mean to you.”
“A great deal,” said the girl gently. “But if you hate him, I can’t ask you.”
“He’s a hard man,” said Arizona, “and he’s got a mean name, lady. You know that. But when you say that he means a lot to you, maybe it’s because he’s taken a big chance for you in Sour Creek and—”
She shook her head. “It’s more than that—much more.”
“Well, I guess I understand,” said Arizona.
Burying the last of his hopes, Arizona looked straight into the sun.
“Eight years ago he was a better man than I am,” said he at length. “And he’s a better man still. Lady, I’m going to get Riley Sinclair free!”
CHAPTER 30
As Arizona had predicted, Sheriff Kern was greatly tempted not to start on the hard ride for the mountains before morning, and finally he followed his impulse. With the first break of the dawn he was up, and a few minutes later he had taken the trail alone. There was no need of numbers, for that matter, to tell a single man that he no longer need dread the law. But it was only common decency to inform him of the charge, and Kern was a decent sort.
He was thoughtful on the trail. A great many things had happened to upset the sheriff. The capture of Sinclair, take it all in all, was an important event. To be sure, the chief glory was attributable to the cunning of Arizona; nevertheless, the community was sure to pay homage to the skill of the sheriff who had led the party and managed the capture.
But now the sheriff found himself regretting the capture and all its attendant glory. Not even a personal grudge against the man who had taken his first prisoner from him, could give an edge to the sheriff’s satisfaction, for, during the late hours of the preceding night he had heard from Sinclair the true story of the killing of Quade; not a murder, but a fair fight. And he had heard more—the whole unhappy tale which began with the death of Hal Sinclair in the desert, a story which now included, so far as the sheriff knew, three deaths, with a promise of another in the future.
It was little wonder that he was disturbed. His philosophy was of the kind that is built up in a country of horses, hard riding, hard work, hard fighting. According to the precepts of that philosophy, Sinclair would have shirked a vital moral duty had he failed to avenge the pitiful death of his brother.
The sheriff put himself into the boots of the man who was now his prisoner and facing a sentence of death. In that man’s place he knew that he would have taken the same course. It was a matter of necessary principle; and the sheriff also knew that no jury in the country could allow Sinclair to go free. It might not be the death sentence, but it would certainly be a prison term as bad as death.
These thoughts consumed the time for the sheriff until his horse had labored up the height, and he came to the little plateau where so much had happened outside of his ken. And there he saw Bill Sandersen, with the all-seeing sun on his dead eyes.
For a moment the sheriff could not believe what he saw. Sandersen was, in the phrase of the land, “Sinclair’s meat.” It suddenly seemed to him that Sinclair must have broken from jail and done this killing during the night. But a moment’s reflection assured him that this could not be. The mind of the sheriff whirled. Not Sinclair, certainly. The man had been dead for some hours. In the sky, far above and to the north, there were certain black specks, moving in great circles that drifted gradually south. The buzzards were already coming to the dead. He watched them for a moment, with the sinking of the heart which always comes to the man of the mountain desert when he sees those grim birds.
It was not Sinclair. But who, then?
He examined the body and the wound. It was a center shot, nicely placed. Certainly not the sort of shot that Cold Feet, according to the description which Sinclair had given of the latter’s marksmanship, would be apt to make. But there was no other conclusion to come to. Cold Feet had certainly been here according to Sinclair’s confession, and it was certainly reasonable to suppose that Cold Feet had committed this crime. The sheriff placed the hat of Sinclair over his face and swung back into his saddle; he must hurry back to Sour Creek and send up a burial party, for no one would have an interest in interring the body in the town.
But once in the saddle he paused again. The thought of the schoolteacher having killed so formidable a fighter as Sandersen stuck in his mind as a thing too contrary to probability. Moreover the sheriff had grown extremely cautious. He had made one great failure very recently—the escape of this same Cold Feet. He would have failed again had it not been for Arizona. He shuddered at the thought of how his reputation would have been ruined had he gone on the trail and allowed Sinclair to double back to Sour Creek and take the town by surprise.
Dismounting, he threw his reins and went back to review the scene of the killing. There were plenty of tracks around the place. The gravel obscured a great part of the marks, and still other prints were blurred by the dead grass. But there were pockets of rich, loamy soil, moist enough and firm enough to take an impression as clearly as paper takes ink. The sheriff removed the right shoe from the foot of Sandersen and made a series of fresh prints.
They were quite distinctive. The heel was turned out to such an extent that the track was always a narrow indentation, where the heel fell on the soft soil. He identified the same tracks in many places, and, dismissing the other tracks, the sheriff proceeded to make up a trail history for Sandersen.
Here he came up the hill, on foot. Here he paused beside the embers of the fire and remained standing for a long time, for the marks were worked in deeply. After a time the trail went—he followed it with difficulty over the hard-packed gravel—up the side of the hill to a semicircular arrangement of rocks, and there, distinct in the soil, was the impression of the body, where the cowpuncher had lain down. The sheriff lay down in turn, and at once he was sure why Sandersen had chosen this spot. He was defended perfectly on three sides from bullets, and in the meantime, through crevices in the rock, he maintained a clear outlook over the whole side of the hill.
Obviously Sandersen had lain down to keep watch. For what? For Cold Feet, of course, on whose head a price rested. Or, at least, so Sinclair must have believed at the time. The news had not yet been published abroad that Cold Feet had been exculpated by the confession of Sinclair to the killing of Quade.
So much was clear. But presently Sandersen had risen and gone down the hill again, leaving from the other side of the rock. Had he covered Cold Feet when the latter returned to his camp, having been absent when Sandersen first arrived? No, the tracks down the hill were leisurely, not the long strides which a man would make to get close to one whom he had covered with a revolver from a distance.
Reaching the shoulder of the mountain, Kern puzzled anew. He began a fresh study of the tracks. Those of Cold Feet were instantly known by the tiny size of the marks of the soles. The sheriff remembered that he had often wondered at the smallness of the schoolteacher’s feet. Cold Feet was there, and Sandersen was dead. Again it seemed certain that Cold Feet had been guilty of the crime, but the sh
eriff kept on systematically hunting for new evidence. He found no third set of tracks for some time, but when he did find them, they were very clear—a short, broad foot, the imprint of a heavy man. A fat man, then, no doubt. From the length of the footprint it was very doubtful if the man were tall, and certainly by the clearness of the indentation, the man was heavy. The sheriff could tell by making a track beside that of the quarry.
A second possibility, therefore, had entered, and the sheriff felt a reasonable conviction that this must be the guilty man.
Now he combed the whole area for some means of identifying the third man who had been on the mountainside. But nothing had been dropped except a brilliant bandanna, wadded compactly together, which the sheriff recognized as belonging to Sandersen. There was only one definite means of recognizing the third man. Very faint in the center of the impression made by his sole, were two crossed arrows, the sign of the bootmaker.
The sheriff shook his head. Could he examine the soles of the boots of every man in the vicinity of Sour Creek, even if he limited his inquiry to those who were short and stocky? And might there not be many a man who wore the same type of boots?
He flung himself gloomily into his saddle again, and this time he headed straight down the trail for Sour Creek.
At the hotel he was surrounded by an excited knot of people who wished to know how he had extracted the amazing confession from Riley Sinclair. The sheriff tore himself away from a dozen hands who wished to buttonhole him in close conversation.
“I’ll tell you gents this,” he said. “Quade was killed because he needed killing, and Sinclair confessed because he’s straight.”
With that, casting an ugly glance at the lot of them, he went back into the kitchen and demanded a cup of coffee. The Chinese cook obeyed the order in a hurry, highly flattered and not a little nervous at the presence of the great man in the kitchen.
While Kern was there, Arizona entered. The sheriff greeted him cheerfully, with his coffee cup balanced in one hand.
“Arizona,” he said, “or Dago, or whatever you like to be called—”