by Max Brand
“And a frying pan . . . not a big one,” said Barney.
That seemed to amuse everyone more than all that had passed before. The girl was laughing, too, as Barney could tell from the movement of her shoulders. She struck that laughter from her face before she turned to the counter again, yet her eyes were still shining with it. She put all the desired articles in a heap, touching them with a slender brown forefinger as she named them to him.
“Is that all?” she asked.
“That’s all,” said Barney. “How much, please?”
“It’s two dollars and eighty-five cents . . . if that’s enough flour.”
“That’ll do fine,” said Barney, and presented the bill.
She took it, opened the cash draw, and then paused. She frowned. Her head tilted a little to one side as she stared at Barney. “That money is no good. That’s counterfeit,” she said.
He, in a trance, saw the greenback being pushed across the counter toward him. He accepted it, raised it, turned it back and forth without understanding. “Counterfeit?” he said blankly.
“It’s too bad,” answered the girl. “I’m sorry. Who gave it to you?”
“Why, a man named Leonard Peary gave it to me,” said Barney.
“He wouldn’t do such a thing!” cried the girl.
“He’s a liar!” exclaimed Riley, jumping up from his chair. “I’ve seen these simple-faced crooks working before today. They get away with a lot, but they’re not going to get away with it here in Timberline! Len Peary never gave you that!” He advanced on Barney with arm outstretched, pointing. Behind him came his two companions, with happy looks, intent on mischief.
“I don’t suppose Peary knew it was bad money,” said Barney. “Only . . . it was he who gave it to me. I’m sorry.”
“You’ll be sorrier, when we throw you out of town. We’re gonna give you a run, brother!” cried Riley.
Barney shrank back from that advance of the three. “Don’t touch me!” he exclaimed. “Don’t . . . ”
“Let him alone!” cried out the girl. “He’s not worth it . . . the great baby.”
“Grab him, boys,” said Riley. “We’ll show him the rough side of Timberline.”
They closed in on Barney with a sudden, happy shout, and a rush. This was what he dreaded more than all else in the world.
For if pitchfork handles of stoutest hickory will snap like straws, how can fragile bones of arms and legs be expected to endure a sudden wrench?
With a sweep of his arms he staggered two of them backward. The driving fist of Riley he picked out of the air, caught his other wrist, and crossed his arms across his breast.
“Help!” shouted Riley. “He’s breaking my arms! He’s . . . !”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Barney, instantly relaxing his grip. “I’m sorry I hurt you. Only, you all came at me. I sort of had to do something. I’m sorry.”
One of them was rubbing the side of his cheek where the back of Barney’s hand had landed in the first gesture. And big Riley was looking down at his wrists as though they were broken in fact. But all three of them began to back toward the door. Two went out first. Riley lingered to shout: “But I’m comin’ back! I’m comin back . . . and clean you up!” Then he vanished in turn.
Barney Dwyer, following toward the door, still held out a hand, as though in fact he were approaching a horse. He kept saying: “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to hurt you . . . ”
But when the door slammed hastily as he came closer, he turned back toward the girl, and made a helpless gesture.
“I’m afraid they went away because of me,” said Barney. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” said the girl. “Sit down and tell me about yourself, will you?”
IV
To Barney, it was as though he had been chosen from multitudes, and by a queen, but he saw at once that there was no glow of pleasure in her. She had grown rather pale; there was a weariness about her eyes.
“Is it another of Leonard’s little tricks?” she asked. “Did he send you here?”
“Leonard Peary?” he asked, amazed. “Why, no.”
“He gave you the counterfeit money, you say?” she asked.
“Yes, but . . . ”
“And you just happened to come straight here? It wasn’t that he wanted to see if my eyes were really open so that I could tell good money from bad?”
“Oh, no,” said Barney Dwyer, beginning to suffer in quite a new way.
“It was just by chance, then?” said the girl. “And I suppose it was just by chance that you sleight-handed those three big fellows into helplessness?”
“I have a lot of strength in my hands,” he told her. “More than most people have, at least. That’s all there was to it. I’m sorry that I hurt them.”
She sighed, and shook her head, seeming to deny all that he said. “Will you tell me your name?” she asked.
“Barney Dwyer.”
“Alias what?” she asked.
“I don’t know what you mean,” answered Barney. “You seem to think there’s something strange about me. You seem to think that Leonard Peary sent me here. But I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s as plain a name as yours. Susan Jones. But there’s a difference. My name is real.”
“But so is mine,” said Barney.
She smiled at him, and shook her head again.
“What do you think I am?” cried Barney.
“I think you’re a confidence man,” said the girl. “And you’ve come up here to join Big Mack.”
“Confidence man . . . Big Mack . . . I don’t understand,” he said.
Coldly her eyes examined him. “You keep your face well,” she said. “It’s all very cleverly done. But I’m not an admirer. I’ve seen too much crookedness since I came to Timberline.”
Every word struck him to the heart. “You think that I’m clever? You think that I’m a crook?” Barney Dwyer said. “But I’m not! Everyone knows that I’m too simple. I’m only a ranch hand, and I came up here to collect some money from Leonard Peary. I came from his father’s ranch to collect five dollars.”
She started; her color grew brilliant for a moment. “You rode all the way from the Peary ranch?” she exclaimed. “And for five dollars?”
“No. I didn’t ride. I walked.”
She folded her arms and leaned against the shelves behind the counter. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll try to listen. I dare say that, since you’re a friend of Len Peary’s, you have something very deep behind it all. Only I don’t see the point, so far. You say you walked . . . and yet I can see your horse in the street outside that window.”
“Yes, that’s my horse,” he agreed. “But I can’t ride her. Nobody can. She’s wild, d’you see?” He came a little closer to her, trying desperately, pouring out his spirit to convince her.
“You can’t ride her, so you brought her along, why?”
“Well, Daniel Peary gave her to me as part pay for my month’s work.”
“Just company for you, eh? And the saddle and the bridle you put on her for decoration, is that it?”
“Daniel Peary gave me the saddle and bridle with the horse. That may seem a lot to give, but the saddle is very old. So is the bridle. And the mare is so wild that no one can ride her. Not even a Mexican horse breaker. But I sort of had to bring her along. She’d been given to me, you see.”
“What a fool you must think I am,” said the girl. “And Leonard must think so, too, or he wouldn’t have sent you here.”
Barney, with his bandanna, mopped his face that was wet with the sweat of agony.
“Peary didn’t send me here,” he insisted. “It was Daniel Peary who sent me up here to collect five dollars. He gave me a note, telling Leonard to pay me. So I came up. I brought the mare with me. Please believe what I say.”
Coldly she eyed him. “Daniel Peary fired you, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Barney eagerly. “That’s it. He fired me.”
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br /> “Why?”
“Because I broke a pitchfork handle and . . . ”
Something in her face stopped him. “You broke a pitchfork . . . you were fired . . . you were paid off with a wild mustang and a note . . . you walked clear through the mountains to collect five dollars . . . and the five dollars was paid you in counterfeit. It’s quite a story,” said the girl.
“You think I’m lying?” said Barney, gripping his hands together.
“Well,” she said, “it’s hardly a work of art, that story. But I suppose that every confidence man has to keep his hand in . . . he has to practice, though heaven alone knows what you can gain by telling me such yarns. Unless Leonard wants to prove that I’m really just half-witted.”
“But it’s all true!” cried Barney. He rose on tiptoe as he realized the vanity of his words. “And Daniel Peary told me to bring his son back from the mountains, if I could. If I did that, would you believe what I’ve told you?”
“Daniel Peary told you to take Len Peary out of the mountains and back to the ranch? Oh, yes! If you manage that, I’ll believe you. Certainly I’ll believe you.”
“Then I’ll do it, somehow. Even if they kill me while I’m trying.”
“How brave, how simple, how naïve,” said the girl, sneering.
“I’d better go,” said Barney feebly.
“Time like your time ought not to be wasted on such small games,” said the girl. “When you see Leonard, tell him I’ve enjoyed your call. Good bye, Mister Barney Dwyer.”
He got to the door and turned there to look back toward her. Indignation still flushed her face. Her silence was more terrible and wounding to Barney than all the words that men ever had laid upon him. More than ever before, he felt trapped and helpless. Something more had to be said, although what words he could use were not apparent to him.
“It’s wrong,” he managed to say, at last. “We ought to be friendly, and not hostile.”
“We’re going to see a good deal of one another, are we?” she asked.
“How can I tell that?” asked Barney.
“You know that Leonard Peary sees me nearly every day. If you’re one of his companions, I suppose I’ll have to be seeing you, too.”
“Does he mean a lot to you?” asked Barney.
In her anger and disdain it seemed that she would not even answer him, for a moment.
Then she broke out: “He means so much to me that I wish he were out of these mountains and away from every man like . . . ” She paused there, frowning. From every man like you had been plainly in her mind, but she left the last accusing word unspoken.
Barney Dwyer sighed. “You want him away?” he repeated. “You really would like to have him away from Timberline . . . back on his father’s ranch, say?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Back on the ranch raising some honest calluses on his hands. I’d rather see him there than anything in the world. Go tell him that, and let him laugh and sneer with you. I don’t care. It’s what I mean.”
Barney tried to speak again. He wanted to tell her that he would try with all the life and strength in him to accomplish what she wished. But words so failed him that he could only turn from her and stumble blindly out through the door and into the dazzle of the open daylight.
“There he is!” said half a dozen shrill voices.
A whole group of the bare-legged boys of the town had gathered. They fell back before the coming of Barney Dwyer. There was a dancing delight in their eyes, and he waited for their opening volley of mockery and baiting.
The mare came up to him at once. As he turned down the street, she followed. She even trotted half a length ahead as though to show him the way hastily out of this human habitation.
“Look it!” shouted the boys. “She follers him like a dog! I bet she can go, too!”
Barney, amazed, made out dimly that this was not mockery at all. He came to the saloon before which the sign swayed slowly back and forth in the wind, and there, as he paused, an eager youngster touched his elbow,
“Can I hold her, mister?” he asked.
“Thanks,” said Barney. “Of course you can hold her.”
“I’ll take care of her,” said the boy proudly.
“But don’t try to ride her,” said Barney. “Nobody can ride her. She’s full of tricks.”
“Nobody but you can sit her out, eh?” asked the happy boy. “Jiminy, wouldn’t I like to have a horse like that, one day? Oh, but wouldn’t I? She’s a one-man horse.”
Barney, at the swinging doors of the saloon, hesitated. He felt there was urgent need to admit that he was quite incapable of staying on the back of the red mare, but the last time he had said this, it had brought down the derision of Susan Jones. So he shook his head, sadly, more bewildered than ever, and, as he passed through the doors of the saloon, he heard the youngster crying out behind him: “Back up, all you gents! I’m watchin’ after this mare!”
There was a clattering of many voices inside the saloon, but, as he appeared, all of that noise ended.
“There he is now,” said a whisper.
All faces turned toward him with a single white flash. Silently they regarded him. Neither head nor hand stirred. The bartender was transfixed, unable to move with the bottle that he held. His mouth had been open to laugh. It remained open. His eyes turned into round agates with spots of color in the center of them.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” said Barney. “But do you know where Leonard Peary is?”
“It ain’t any bother, sir,” said the bartender. “I’d right sure tell you where he is, only I don’t know. Maybe he’d be out at the Walsh place. He goes there a lot. You know where the Walsh place is?”
The grace of this extreme condescension and courtesy amazed Barney. He tried to look through it to find the ironical truth that must lie behind the words, but he was unable to discover a sham.
“I don’t know where the Walsh place is,” he said. “I’m a stranger here.”
The bartender hurried from his place of business toward the door. “You ain’t so strange to Timberline as you was a while ago,” he said with a happy unction. “It takes us a while to get to know a man like you, sir. But after a coupla lessons we learn pretty fast.”
He chuckled. Everybody in the room chuckled, also, softly.
“A feller like Riley Quintin, maybe he learned all he wanted to know in one lesson,” said a voice.
Subdued laughter welcomed the sally. All faces beamed upon Barney Dwyer. The bartender was ushering him through the swinging doors. He stood in the street, where his white apron flamed in the sun.
“There’s the Walsh place, over yonder. Right toward Mount Baldy. That one with all the snow on it. You head toward Baldy. The Walsh place is about a mile out. It’s got a lot of bushes around it. It’s the only house in sight. You can’t miss it.”
Barney Dwyer thanked him, and started down the street, with the mare following at his heels.
“Hey, ain’t you gonna ride her?” asked the lad who had watched her.
“No,” said Barney.
“He ain’t gonna ride her,” said the lad to the others, explaining the mystery. “He’s gotta save her. He’s gotta save her for when he needs her, because when he needs her, I reckon that he needs her bad.”
V
From the edge of the town, the boys watched him go up the winding trail. He turned a rocky corner that shut them from view. Still their shrill voices followed him for a moment, grew drowsily soft with distance, and at last left him alone. The sun had not set, but it was behind the western peaks and blackened them, particularly the great pyramid of Mount Baldy. The world was all dazzling light or deep shadow. And it seemed to Barney as though he were walking over the crown of the universe, held up where the truth could be seen clearly. Yet the truth about Barney Dwyer had not appeared, as yet, to the people of Timberline. They had seen through him clearly enough when he had entered the place, but now all was changed. They regarded him with respect so profound that
he could not think it hypocrisy. The very boys who had jeered at him when he entered the town had attended him in an honorable procession when he left it.
He shook his head over these facts. They had made him into a man of importance. A guilty tingle of pleasure passed through him. His face grew hot. It would be well for him to leave that community before they found him out. Even the girl, for all the clearness of her eyes, seemed to look upon him as a force, as a clever rogue playing a part too deep for her to comprehend entirely.
He was pondering over these things with trouble in his mind, when he heard the scattering of gravel under the hoofs of a trotting horse, and a rider loomed the next moment around the bend of the trail. He was a trim fellow of middle age with sandy mustaches cut short. The brim of his sombrero was stiff with newness. He sat as straight as a soldier and looked very much like one of those Englishmen who come West to raise cattle and lose money on a large scale.
He stopped his horse near Barney and waved his hand in a half military salute. Barney felt authority and halted at once.
“Where you bound, stranger?” asked the man of the mustache.
“Up yonder,” said Barney. “The Walsh place.”
“Ah,” said the other. “You a friend of Bunny Walsh?”
“No, I’ve never seen him. I’ve never been in Timberline before. I’m a stranger here.”
“I’m the sheriff. My name is Elder,” said the other. “What do you want with Bunny Walsh?”
“Oh, are you the sheriff?” said Barney. He looked on Sheriff Elder with awe. People such as sheriffs do not ride into one’s life every day. “I’m going up to ask about a man called Leonard Peary.”
“Ah,” said the sheriff. “You want to see Peary, do you? You want to see Big Mack, too, I suppose?”
It was not the first time that Barney had heard this name. He wondered at it. “Will you tell me who Big Mack is?”
“You never heard of John McGregor?” asked the sheriff.
“Just a moment,” said Barney. He used that moment to look with frowning intentness into his memory. John McGregor seemed a familiar name, yet he could not place it. “No, I don’t remember hearing of him.”