The Quest

by Max Brand

  “You don’t?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Never heard of Adam, either, did you? Never heard of the devil, perhaps? What’s your name?”

  “Barney Dwyer. I’ve heard of the devil, of course, and Adam,” said Barney. “Why do you ask?”

  The sheriff grunted. “I see,” he remarked. “You’re the sort that plays the simple-minded part, and you do it damned well . . . though you’ll probably be damned doing it.”

  “I don’t understand,” murmured Barney.

  “You don’t, don’t you? But I tell you that you do understand. You want Peary, and you’re going to the Bunny Walsh place. That’s enough proof that you’re one of ‘em. Enough proof for a hanging, if I could have my way about it. And I’ll tell you this . . . as I’ve told the rest of ’em . . . I’m going to wipe the lot of you off the face of the earth, one of these days. It’s going to be your life or mine. You fellows murdered some of the people that went before me, and you’ve bought up the rest. But you won’t buy me. And as for the killing, it’s a game I know how to play. Good bye. But remember that I’ve got my eye on you.”

  He rode on down the trail, and Barney Dwyer turned to watch him. Of all the strange encounters in his life, he felt that this was undoubtedly the strangest. And he was aggrieved. It was the duty of the law to stand by fellows like himself he thought—fellows who are not quite as clever and sharp as other men. The sheriff should be his friend, and the law should be his refuge. But now, with a sudden and brutal gesture, he was thrown out in the nakedness of his soul among the men of Timberline.

  He could at least understand that Big Mack, or John McGregor, together with Leonard Peary and one Bunny Walsh were people who the sheriff detested. And since of course a sheriff must not hate any except offenders against the law, they were criminals, all those men.

  Before Barney lay a sweep of Alpine meadow closely carpeted with low-growing furze, and misted over with the color of millions of obscure flowers. On those flowers the bees were at work, all their songs gathered into a voice like far-off violins. To Barney there was nothing soothing in the sound, but rather it worked on his nerves like an alarm.

  Then he saw the house. It stood up like a gray fist in the midst of the furze with a cloud of big bushes rolling at its feet. When he came up to it, he saw that it was big enough to have served as an hotel, but time and rough weather had battered it, knocked in the windows, stripped patches of shingles off the roof, peeled and tarnished the paint. Some of the windows were boarded up against storms. In other places oiled silk would let in some light.

  He stepped onto the verandah. Loose boards rattled under his feet. At the door, he rapped and heard the echo sound inside. While he waited, he turned. The red mare was in the middle of the path, sometimes stealing forward, sometimes shrinking back, trying to scan every inch of the face of the house at once, as though she were afraid that danger might leap out at her like a snake from any crevice.

  After a time a step came slowly inside the building, the lock clanked, and the door was pulled open gradually, until Barney saw an old, bent Negro on the threshold. His head was covered with white wool; the many years had dusted over the black of his skin.

  “Yes, sir?” he said.

  “I want to see Leonard Peary,” answered Barney. “Is he here?”

  “Mister Peary ain’t here, sir,” said the Negro.

  “You can’t tell me where to find him?”

  “No, sir.”

  A voice not far away said: “Bring him in, Wash.”

  Wash stepped back to show the way. “Mister McGregor says will you kindly come in, sir?” he invited.

  Compared with the rosy brilliance of the outer day, the hall was as dark as the mouth of a trap, and inside it was the chief who the men of Timberline called Big Mack, the enemy called John McGregor by the sheriff. Barney thought of all this, looked down at his hands, and then promptly went inside.

  There was still a gleam of varnish on the banisters that turned twice in climbing from the shadowy hall, and the masks of some old hunting trophies showed their teeth at Barney. That was all he saw before Wash took him through a pair of double doors into the next room. It surprised Barney with a look of useful cheerfulness. He saw a big open fireplace with a charred back log that had been eaten almost in two. There was no fire, but the acrid scent of wood smoke was still in the air. It made Barney remember many a campfire; his hunger took him by the throat and shook him.

  For at a small table in the center of the room, eating a thick slab of steak from a platter piled with fried potatoes in the margins, sat the austere figure of the man he had seen before on the verandah of the Timberline hotel—that same fellow who had failed to answer his question. It was he who had just spoken to Wash. Therefore he must be Big Mack, that leader and focal head of crime in those mountains.

  Eyeing Barney, McGregor placed a bit of meat in his mouth and chewed it slowly. Big Mack would have been handsome, thought Barney, except for certain hard angles in his face and the grimness of his expression.

  Now he nodded toward a chair. “Sit down” said McGregor. Barney merely rested his hand on the back of the chair that had been indicated. He felt more nervous than ever. Somehow the loneliness of this meal and the unusual hour of it convinced him that Big Mack was capable of anything.

  “Sit down?” ordered McGregor again.

  “I’m all right this way,” said Barney.

  McGregor continued to eat. “You know who I am?” he asked after a moment during which Barney did not dare to speak.

  “I think that you’re John McGregor,” he said.

  McGregor lifted dull eyes toward him. “What makes you think that?”

  “After you spoke, a minute ago, Wash said that Mister McGregor wanted to see me.”

  “Wash is an old man. He’s an old fool,” said McGregor, without heat. “Wash!”

  The Negro came through the door, bending forward in haste.

  “More whiskey,” said McGregor, instead of speaking the reproof that Barney expected. “And another glass.”

  “I don’t drink whiskey,” said Barney.

  McGregor, at this, lifted his head and stared calmly, coldly, curiously at Barney. From a stone jug, Wash poured three fingers of amber liquid into a tumbler. McGregor swallowed half of it, instantly. He asked for no chaser after it. The sting of that raw liquor brought not a tear into his eyes. His throat was unclouded with huskiness as he said: “You don’t drink whiskey?”

  “No,” repeated Barney.

  “Why not?” asked the unemotional voice.

  “Well,” said Barney,” supposing that I liked it, I wouldn’t be able to buy it, most of the time. And I get along with water or coffee, pretty well.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to buy whiskey, eh?” said Big Mack, continuing to eat. He speared three slices of fried potato with his fork, salted the morsel, peppered it, dabbed it in the gravy at the edge of the platter, and lifted it to his mouth. All the while his dull eyes continued to examine Barney. “Why wouldn’t you be able to buy whiskey?”

  “I’m out of a job, a lot of the time,” said Barney.

  “So am I,” said Big Mack with the smaller half of a smile. “But I can buy whiskey.”

  “You see,” explained Barney,” I don’t often have a chance to work more than a month at a time.”

  “Neither do I,” said Big Mack.

  “And then I spend my money pretty fast between jobs.”

  “So do I,” said Big Mack. “What’s your game? And who are you?”

  “My name is Barney Dwyer. I haven’t any game.”

  “Look here, Dwyer. You do the trick very well. You could pass as the simple-minded fellow with most people. But I’m not such a fool. Don’t take me for a fool. Take me for anything else you please, but don’t take me for a fool.”

  “I won’t,” said Barney.

  “Riley Quintin is a reasonably hardy lad,” said Big Mack. “He talks too much, and he bawls out everything that’
s on his mind, but he’s a good man with his hands. He had two others with him. You made one move, tied all three of ‘em in knots, and threw them out of the store. And yet you come here and try to pretend . . . ”

  “I didn’t throw them out of the store,” protested Barney. “They walked out. I was sorry to hurt them. They sort of rushed at me, and I had to protect myself. I didn’t want to do them any harm.”

  McGregor rolled the rest of the whiskey over his tongue, watching Barney constantly over the edge of the glass. Then he pointed, and Barney, looking through an open window at the end of the room, saw the red mare moving uneasily from side to side in front of the house.

  “You can afford to buy a horse like that, but you can’t afford whiskey, eh?”

  “She was given to me,” said Barney. “She was . . . ”

  “Ah? People will give you horses like that, will they? Because they take a sudden liking to you, eh? They say . . . ‘Dwyer, I never saw you before, but I like you. I want you to remember me. I want you to take a little souvenir away with you. I have a red bay mare in the barn. She cost me a couple of thousand dollars, but I want you to have her, because I can see that nothing but the best is fit for you. Take her, Barney Dwyer, and use her well, and think of me.’ I suppose people talk to you like that, eh?”

  “No, no,” said Barney. “She’s just a wild-caught mare, and she was given as part pay of my wages, the other day. She isn’t worth much because nobody can ride her. She’s really wild.”

  “Ah?” said Big Mack. “You keep her along for company, eh?”

  “She’s pretty good to have along,” said Barney, “and . . . ”

  “That’s going too far. You take me for a half-wit, do you?”

  “No, no!” said Barney in a misery of confusion. “Only . . . ”

  “That horse can’t be ridden, Dwyer?”

  “I think not, but . . . ”

  “Would you give it to a man that could ride it?”

  “I suppose so . . . ” began Barney, “but . . . ”

  “You wanted to see Len Peary. You’ll have a chance. You’ll have a chance to see him move, too. Peary!”

  It was as though he had set a bugle to his lips and blown a blast, so did his voice burst out resonantly, beating on the ears of Barney Dwyer, piercing through walls, ringing through the house until the entire place seemed to tremble a little with the vibration of the sound.

  “Peary!” shouted Big Mack again.

  And far away a door was heard to slam, and footfalls came racing—footfalls as soft as the padded step of a cat, and coming toward them as swiftly as a great cat can run.

  VI

  A door flashed open in the side of the room and that panther-like youth, Leonard Peary, sprang in with a revolver in his hand. He straightened from a crouching position, gradually.

  “I thought you yelled . . . ” he said to Big Mack.

  “I wanted you fast, but I don’t need your gun,” said McGregor. “Here’s the fellow you handed five phony dollars to.”

  Young Peary put up his gun, strode to Barney, and stared him in the eye. “What have you got to say about it?” he demanded. “I’ve heard that you can break men in two. What have you got to say to me?”

  His fearlessness and his contempt made him a fine picture that Barney was able to admire so heartily that he merely smiled and shook his head.

  “I wouldn’t fight you for five dollars,” said Barney. “Fighting you would be a bad business, I think.”

  Big Mack began to laugh softly.

  Peary, after staring at Barney for another instant, turned on his heel toward McGregor. “Is he trying to make a fool of me? Is he trying to talk down to me, Mack?” he demanded.

  “If you owe him five dollars, give it to him,” said McGregor.

  Peary, without turning, flung a gold piece on the floor. It rolled into a corner, and Barney humbly pursued and captured it.

  Peary was exclaiming: “You can’t make a monkey out of me, Mack!”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said McGregor. “You’re wanting a real horse, you’ve said? Well, look at that red mare out the window. She’s yours . . . if you can ride her. Go take a try. If you can’t handle her, nobody can.”

  Peary went to the window and looked at the mare. He whistled. “I’ll ride her or take the hide off her,” he said, and was instantly outside the room.

  Big Mack had finished his meal with expedition. Now he came to the window with another tumbler of whiskey and looked out on the contest, while Barney Dwyer stood at his side, feeling that he had been tricked into venturing the mare in such a chance, knowing that whether he could ride her or not, she had more value to him than any other horse in the world.

  Leonard Peary went out and stood by the mare, while he tightened his belt. Then he whipped into the saddle with a yell, and threw the quirt into the horse. There was no second stroke of that whip. The mare rose like a cloud of fire; she dropped again like a thunderbolt. The earth was furnished with springs, casting her up higher and higher. At last she spun on the ground like a wheel and slung Len Peary skidding along the ground.

  He was up at once.

  “Thirty seconds, Len,” said McGregor from the window.

  Pure joy made Barney laugh, although he was sure that laughter was dangerous.

  Peary was perfectly at ease, however. He dusted himself off, arranged his bandanna at his throat, and took note of a tear in his trousers.

  “I know why you laugh,” Len said, nodding at Barney. “You taught her to buck, eh?”

  “No,” said Barney. “I haven’t taught her.”

  “You lie,” stated Peary, although still without heat. “You trained her.”

  “Don’t call people liars . . . not while they’re in my house,” said Big Mack coldly.

  “It’s not your house. It’s Bunny Walsh’s house. And this fellow trained her, all right. Did you see her start off fence-rowing? She switched to sun-fishing, and finished me off with a spin. She’s an educated devil, Mack. You could see for yourself.”

  “Going to try her again?” asked McGregor.

  “Of course I am,” said Peary.” “I’ll ride her, too.”

  The fear leaped up in the heart of Barney Dwyer. “No!” he called. “Once is enough. That’s all I agreed to. One try is enough, and she won.”

  “You won’t let me try her again?” asked Peary.

  “Sorry,” said Barney. “She means a lot to me. She’s like a friend. Come here, girl.” He held out his hand, but, as she started to come to him, Peary caught the rein and checked her.

  “Let me see you try to stop me!” exclaimed Peary. “I’m going to ride her or bust. You stop me if you can!”

  The mare pulled back on the reins, snorting, backing to reach her master at the window, and, at the sight of her effort to come to him, Barney felt a prickling of gooseflesh all over his skin, and a burning heat inside him. He laid his hand on the sill of the window ready to leap down on the outside.

  “Let go of her, Peary!” he called.

  “I’m damned if I do,” answered Peary.

  “Let her go,” commanded Big Mack. “She belongs to Barney Dwyer, here . . . just now. Let her alone, Len!”

  Peary, gradually relaxing his grip on the rein, obeyed that order, but his dark eyes were fixed not on McGregor, but on Barney Dwyer.

  “We’ll see some more of each other, Dwyer,” he snarled.

  “Of course you will, Len,” declared Big Mack. “Come in here. We’ll have a chat with Dwyer, the two of us.”

  Leonard Peary returned to the room, flung himself into a chair, and lounged back in it with his legs stretched out. He was scowling. His lips worked a little. A scratch like a pen stroke of red ink ran from his temple down one cheek.

  “What’s there to talk about?” asked Peary. “Doesn’t seem to me that talking is in place now.”

  McGregor, carrying his half-finished whiskey back to the table, took his former place and sipped the drink. “I’ll decide when it’
s time to stop talking,” he declared. “Dwyer, come out with it. What’s your game? What brought you up here? Who are you?”

  Barney moistened his lips. He could feel that he had come to a crisis and his eyes ached, they were thrusting so far from his head. That slow brain of his refused to furnish him with words or an answer.

  “I’m John McGregor. You know that. This is Len Peary. You know that, too. Now, we want to know who Barney Dwyer is. Let’s have the news.”

  “I’m just a ranch hand,” said Barney. “I came up here from the Peary Ranch to collect five dollars that Daniel Peary still owed me. He told me to get it from his son. He told me to bring his son back with me.”

  The two others stared at him.

  “He’s got a queer lingo, Mack,” suggested Peary. “Is he a confidence man, or something?”

  “He’s something, all right,” answered McGregor. “We’ll dig down and get some information out of him, too. Listen to me, Dwyer.”

  “Yes?” murmured Barney.

  “This stuff about taking Peary home to the ranch. What sort of rot is that?” He held the whiskey glass at his lips, waiting for the answer before he drank, and the light that strained through the amber liquid put a wavering flame on the chin of McGregor.

  “You see how it is,” explained Barney. “His father is getting older, I guess. He wants his son back home. He doesn’t like having him in Timberline. He told me that he’d like it a lot if I brought him back home.”

  “How would you take him, Dwyer?” asked Big Mack.

  Barney looked down at his hands. “Well, I’d just bring him along, I suppose,” he said.

  “Just tie you on behind his saddle, Len,” said McGregor to Peary. “That’s all he’d do. Take you along with him like a blanket roll.” He smiled a little.

  “Are you going to let him talk this sort of bunk and get away with it?” asked Peary.

  “No,” answered McGregor, “I won’t let him get away with it. Dwyer, who have you talked to in Timberline?”

  “Why, just to you two, and a bartender, and Riley Quintin, Susan Jones, and Wash, and a boy, and the sheriff,” said Barney.