by Max Brand
Then he struck the door with his fist and dashed it open, and, as he did so, he was conscious of a shadow just at his back. He glanced like lightning over his shoulder, and saw the handsome face of young Charles Crandall.
It was too late to turn back the gallant boy again. So Sherry stepped on into the saloon, and the first face that his eyes fell upon was that of Fannie Slade. He saw that man with a wonderful distinctness in a hundredth part of a second. And it was an unforgettable face, with bright silver tufts of hair at either temple, sunken eyes that flashed like metal out of the deep shadows beneath the brow, and lines of irony and pain and savagery marked on it deeply everywhere.
That face convulsed with anger at the sight of Sherry, but the eyes widened and grew blank, also. Plainly Fanny Slade was receiving the greatest surprise of his life, and he was not enjoying the shock.
But it is that way many a time—a reputation grows too great. The pedestal becomes so high that even the statue is afraid of falling. So Slade stared, unable to believe that any man dared to invade his lair.
“Are you ready, Slade?” called Sherry.
The great Fannie Slade leaned a little forward, his left hand extended along the edge of the bar, his right hand at his thigh, just hovering over the handles of his revolver, but he did not draw, and he did not speak.
“Keep back, all of you,” said a quiet young voice behind Sherry. “I’ll start shooting the first man who tries to interfere.”
That was the sheriff’s nephew. A bit of real stuff, thought Sherry.
The blankness was leaving the eyes of Slade, but still a ghost of it remained, and suddenly Sherry stepped forward. He dared not stand quietly, waiting for the gunman to make the first move.
“You sent for me, Slade, to tell me that you were coming,” said Sherry. “I couldn’t keep such a famous man waiting. Here I am.” He stood close, looking down on the slayer.
And then the glance of Slade wavered in a flash to the side—and back again to Sherry. But it told Sherry enough. It was a blinding ray of light.
“Great guns,” said Sherry. “I thought you were a man. I didn’t expect to find merely a murdering sneak.” And with his left hand, lightly he struck Slade upon the cheek. The gunfighter turned white as death, but that deadly and famous right hand remained frozen upon the handles of his gun.
Sherry turned his back and saw a line of sick faces along the bar. “This is a rotten show, boys,” he said. “You’d better get your friend out of town, because I hear that the sheriff may want him.”
And he walked out of the saloon, leaving deathly silence behind him. At his back stepped young Charles Crandall, his revolver still leveled, guarding the retreat of the big man. When they were outside, he sprang before Sherry and wrung his hand enthusiastically.
“That was a grand thing!” cried Charles Crandall. “That was the finest thing that I ever saw or heard of. Even Uncle Herbert never did a better thing in all his life!”
“You go back to your uncle,” said Sherry, “and give him a message from me, word for word. Will you do that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Crandall with an almost soldierly readiness.
“Tell him that he ought to keep you at home, because, if you wander around, one of these days you’ll blow up.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” protested the youngster.
“I don’t suppose you do,” Sherry said, nodding. “But he will. In the meantime, I want you to know that I’m your friend. I never would have come out of Ratner’s alive without you at my back. You don’t have to repeat that to the sheriff. I’ll call on him and tell him that myself.”
He left Charles Crandall with a face suffused with joy, and went slowly back up the street to the hotel. He did not arrive there first. Hurrying figures had left the saloon shortly after his departure, and they had given brief messages to the curious. So a murmur arose before Sherry and behind him as he went up to the youth of the tattered coat and black eye.
“Young fellow,” said Sherry, “I thought that I could get a coat out of the crowd in Ratner’s for you. But they didn’t want to play. Come into the store with me, and I’ll get you a new one.”
A broad grin played over the battered face of the other. “Partner,” he said with emotion, “I wouldn’t change this here coat, now, for a broadcloth one . . . not with tails to it.” He added, in a burst of enthusiasm: “It don’t seem possible that you made Slade take water. Great guns. Fannie Slade. The killer. Now, every terrier in town will take after his scalp.”
“They’ll never catch up with him,” suggested Sherry. “Slade has sloped, by this time, I think.”
And, in fact, Slade had disappeared from Clayrock on a fast horse, and none of his escort of cronies rode with him. But as Sherry went down the street again, he saw that his own position in the town had altered considerably. Men and women had looked at him before with awe, to be sure, but also with dread, as one would admire a huge but savage dog. But now they regarded him with a more friendly air. Children suddenly darted out of gates and began to tag along behind him. A bold spirit ran past him and slapped at his great, ponderous, swinging hand. Sherry scooped him up as he fled and whirled him in the air, while the boy shrieked with fear—and found himself suddenly deposited upon a vast shoulder, then settled safely upon the ground again. So laughter arose and spilled back and forth riotously among the children, and they swarmed around the knees of the big man all the way to the sheriff’s house.
It was the smallest dwelling in Clayrock; it was also the most poverty-stricken, but in front of it there was a garden of flowers that the sheriff kept going by much labor in the intervals between his manhunting expeditions. He was digging in that garden, now, on his knees, whistling cheerfully as he worked around the roots of an ancient rose bush.
“Hey!” shrilled a child in the crowd. “Look what we’ve brought home to you for lunch, Sheriff Moon!”
And they yelled with delight as Sherry strode triumphantly through the gate.
Sheriff Herbert Moon got up from his knees rather painfully, and with a slowness that made Sherry realize that time was stiffening the hero.
“Well, well, well,” said Moon. “I’m glad to see you here. I was sorry to hear from Charles that you had taken such a foolish chance. But, of course, I’m glad that it turned out that way. I never would have dared to go into Ratner’s for him, I’m sure. Come into the house and sit down, Sherry.”
So spoke the sheriff, knowing that twenty youthful ears heard this tribute to Sherry at the speaker’s own expense.
And then he led the giant into the little house, where Sherry had to bow his head to pass through the door, and where he hardly dared to stand erect even inside, because the rafters sloped down so low at the sides. Charles Crandall sprang up at the other end of the room.
“You run along,” said the sheriff. “You’re a little young to hear what we’re going to say.”
XXIX
The place looked like a Mexican hut, on the inside. That is to say, the floor was simply hard-packed earth, cool and comfortable in summer, soundless underfoot—but necessarily damp in the winter. There was only one room, but each of the four corners was used as a separate chamber. The stove, with pans and pots hanging behind it, filled one nook; a table, flanked by shelves of dishes and cups and saucers, took the next; the third contained a large roll-topped desk that looked absurdly out of place, but which, as everyone knew, probably contained more valuable information about criminals and criminal life than any depository in the Southwest.
The fourth corner was the sheriff’s library, two or three hundred old, time-faded volumes being ranged along the shelves there. Near the desk was one couch, and in the “library” was a second, which supplied the sleeping accommodations. The rear door had been left open by Charles Crandall, and, therefore, Sherry was able to look out on the regular rows of a vegetable garden, behind which stood the barn. This was such a pretentious and solid structure that neighbors sometimes asked why the sher
iff did not move his horses into his house, while he took up his residence in the stable. But he was apt to say in his good-humored way that his horses were worth much more than his skin.
It was not really a very uncomfortable dwelling, when one’s ideas were finally accommodated to this scheme of things. In Mexican style, the floor and the couches and even the chairs were covered with goatskins; on the wall was ranged an armory of weapons, new and old shotguns of several makes and sizes, rifles, and a whole rack of revolvers, with boxes of ammunition beneath. Regularly, winter and summer, in heat or in cold, the patient sheriff stood in his rear yard and worked two hours with his guns. Neighbors peered over the fence and took note of these exhibitions, and what they saw prevented the world from considering that the sheriff had grown old.
“Will you tell me,” said Sherry, “how you can go away on trips and leave all these things behind you? I don’t think either of those doors would hold, even if they had locks and bolts and bars, which I don’t see.”
“This house is never locked,” answered the sheriff.
“Then you’ve weeded all the thieves out of Clayrock?” said Sherry.
“One lifetime isn’t long enough to do that.” Herbert Moon smiled. “All that I’m able to do is to cut off the heads of the tallest weeds . . . keep them from choking out the wheat, so to speak. And I suppose that a good many fellows would like to have a look inside my desk, yonder, or put their hands on those guns.”
“You hire someone to guard the place when you’re away, then?”
“I can’t afford that,” said the sheriff. “Besides, who could I trust? But I have better guards than men ever could be. I’ll show them to you.”
He whistled softly, and instantly two sleek, white forms leaped into the doorway and came to their master—two powerfully made bull terriers with snaky heads, and little, dangerous eyes. They stood at attention like soldiers, their cropped ears pricking.
“This is the answer,” said the sheriff. “When I’m away, the rear door is wedged open just enough for them to go in and out. They can’t be poisoned, for they’ve been taught to take food from no hand except mine and that of my neighbor, Missus Miller. She looks after them while I’m gone, but even Missus Miller doesn’t dare step into the yard. Once or twice there have been awkward situations when tramps came to beg at the door, but a tramp with a fast bull terrier at his heels can do wonderful jumping. Up to this time, they’ve always been able to clear the front fence in their stride; but I confess that I’m always relieved when I get home and find that Jack and Jill have hurt no one.”
Sherry smiled. He could understand a great deal about this little man by the explanation he had given. For what could have been more effective than such an arrangement? And certainly even those accustomed to danger from men and guns would hesitate to face the teeth of these small white defenders. A wave of the sheriff’s hand sent them slipping out of the house again.
Sherry said bluntly: “Sheriff, I’ve come to talk plain talk.”
“I like that kind best,” said Moon.
“You’ve had the name of a square-shooter, always. But now you have a girl in jail and you’re bearing down on her.”
“In what way, Sherry?”
“You’ve refused to let her see anyone . . . you’ve refused to let her send so much as a note out of her cell.”
Herbert Moon did not attempt to deny the accusation, but he said with a nod: “One has to take a different line with nearly every prisoner.”
“But what does the law say about this?”
“The law doesn’t give me any such power,” said Moon with amazing openness. “However, I often have to overstep the bounds of the law.”
“Do you admit that?” gasped Sherry.
“In our country,” replied the other, “the law is made entirely for the sake of the accused, to assure him of receiving justice. We’re raised to believe that all men are free and equal, and according to the letter of the law an accused man, no matter what proofs are against him, is apt to be treated as though he were a little more free and equal than any other person in the land.”
Sherry nodded. “I follow that,” he said. “I don’t want to make trouble about this. I’d rather stand behind you, Moon. But . . . tell me this. Are you sure that Beatrice Wilton killed her uncle?”
The sheriff made a little pause at this for, frank as his talk had been, this was a question that rather overstepped the bounds. At length he answered: “You want a free answer to that . . . an answer never to be repeated, of course?”
“Of course,” agreed Sherry.
“Then I’m glad to tell you that my mind is entirely made up. It doesn’t often happen that an officer of the law can throw himself into his work with surety. But I feel an absolute surety now.”
Sherry sighed. “I hate to hear this,” he admitted. “Is she as surely guilty as all this? Is there no way of throwing a little blame on Fennel?”
“My case is not entirely made up,” answered the sheriff. “I’m frank to say that. But the truth is that this crime never in the world would have been committed if it had not been for Beatrice Wilton.”
Sherry loosened his collar and took a great breath. “I think you’re wrong,” he said huskily. “But suppose that you get together enough evidence to convince a jury . . . what will they do with her?”
“Find her guilty of murder in the first degree, but, since she’s pretty, they’ll recommend a mild sentence, or some degree of mercy, I have no doubt.”
“And then?”
“I know the judge, I think,” replied the sheriff coldly.
“And you’ll influence him to give her all that the law allows?”
“A good judge never can be influenced,” answered Herbert Moon.
“Man, man,” muttered Sherry. “She’s young . . . a more beautiful woman was never made.”
At this, Moon stood up from his chair. “A woman born with a pretty face is born with a curse,” he said. “Her beauty becomes her end of living, her vocation. Her work is to let herself be seen. She doesn’t need to be witty, or gentle, or kind. She’s a tyrant. The world comes to her and bows down. If I were a married man, I’d pray that my daughters should be plain women. As for the beauties . . . heaven help them.”
“And that’s why you hate Beatrice Wilton?” asked Sherry gloomily.
Moon went to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “My boy,” he said, “I know that your heart is aching over this. I want to do something for you. If it will give you as much pleasure as pain, you are free to go to the jail and see the girl . . . and talk to her alone.”
“Would you let me do that?”
“On one condition, that you take no written message for her from the jail. As many oral messages as you please. But not a syllable in writing.”
“It’s a good deal to offer me,” admitted Sherry. “When may I go?”
“Now, if you wish. I’ll send over word to the jailer. And you may see her again, as often as you wish, only promising that you’ll never take a bit of writing from her.”
“I’ll give that promise.”
“I’ll take your hand on it, Sherry.”
They shook hands, and Sherry, his mission performed, left the house in haste.
XXX
On the way to the jail, Sherry encountered Bud and Jerry, the two sailors ambling cheerfully along through the town. They hailed him with good-humored salutes, and he paused for talk.
“We seen the stuff of this here Fennel,” said Jerry. “He was no sailor. He was a farmer. What sailor would have such a bunch of cheap junk? Besides, everything was new.”
“You spotted that for sure?” said Sherry.
“Of course, we spotted it for sure. There’s no doubt at all. And all that stuff come out of old Cap Wendell’s in San Pedro. He carries that kind of junk. I tried to outfit there once myself,” declared Bud Arthur.
It shocked Lew Sherry with surprise and with delight. “You could swear to that?”
“I
seen one of Cap’s labels sticking on an undershirt. Cotton and wool. Nineteen threads of cotton and one of wool. That’s the kind of stuff that Cap uses.”
“Boys,” said Sherry, “will one of you go out to San Pedro for us?”
“We ship always together,” said Jerry.
“Then go out together and talk to Cap Wendell. He might remember something about Fennel.”
“And what good would that do? It’s a long cruise out there and back,” protested Bud.
“Of course it is,” agreed Sherry. “But we’ve lost Fennel’s trail here at Clayrock. Wherever he’s gone, he’s disappeared completely from under our eyes. But this Wendell might be able to tell you what ship Fennel landed from, and where he intended to ship again. And unless we can get him . . . a woman is going to hang for a murder that Fennel must have committed. Do you understand that, boys?”
They understood.
“We’ll go,” said Bud, the controlling spirit of the two. “If we ever can get to windward of Fennel, he’ll never weather us, and we can promise you that. When does this here trial begin?”
“Tomorrow.”
“A day out and a couple days back. We’ll get the news if we can, but Cap Wendell ain’t likely to remember any too much. He’s a moldy old scoundrel, is Wendell.”
They said good bye on the spot, and Sherry went on to the jail, where the sheriff’s message already had been received. The jailer was a grim-looking fellow with a shock of red hair, very tousled, and a hard, white face.
“You play on the inside with Moon, do you?” he asked of Sherry. “Well, his orders go here. Come on into the office. I’ll bring her in.”
“Alone? Can I see her alone?” asked Sherry.
The jailer shook his head. “It ain’t legal,” he declared, “but Moon makes up his own laws around these here parts.”