by Max Brand
But that was not all. For now out of the river arose half a dozen riders and swept around him. He recognized the voice of the good-natured man, not quite so good-natured now.
“Let’s have a little look at your wallet, Gregg!”
There was no mistaking the summons. Gregg tossed it across to the speaker and thanked the caution that had made him bring not a penny more than the stipulated price. He saw that money counted out by match light. And then, with a grunt of disgusted disappointment, the case was tossed back to him.
“Sixteen hundred even. It’s plain that you ain’t paying us for all the fun we’re giving you, Gregg.”
“I didn’t know”—Sammy grinned—“that it would be such a show.”
“Well, old son,” spoke up another, “all I got to say is . . . ride them ponies north as hard as their legs will fetch ’em along, because there is folks on their trail that’s mighty curious about where they’re galloping to.”
Sammy, glad to be gone on this hint, turned the head of his mare in the direction of the disappearing thunder across the plain.
“And keep them greasers on a tight rein, Gregg. Don’t let ’em hold you up for more than thirty a month.”
We all believe in good beginnings, no matter how philosophical we may be. And Sammy, when he contrasted this smooth opening of his campaign with the knotty work that Manuel had had to do the time before, was sure enough that his scheme was due to pan out, at last.
It took an hour of brisk riding before he caught up with the rear guard of the herd. And, when he came up to them, he found the broncos pretty thoroughly subdued. They had had enough running to content them, and it would take a whole thunderstorm to rout them on a new stampede.
Here, there, and beyond, in the rear of the trailing herd, he could spot the Mexican cowpunchers by little sparks of light. That meant that they considered that the worst of this night’s labor was completed. They were smoking in content. And Sammy sighed with relief. Next day he would slip into town to get the few remaining dollars that belonged to him, pack up their grubstake for the trip, and swing out again to rejoin the herd. In the meantime, he watched hungrily, joyously, as they drifted through the night time. Four hundred mustangs, and by the manner in which they kept bunched without trailing laggards, he judged that there were no cripples in the lot. Four hundred! He counted them roughly and found that the number was actually exceeded by five.
What noble thieves were these frontiersmen, more than living up to their contracts. Four hundred ponies. Even suppose that a whole hundred of them were stampeded away on the trip, three hundred at $50 a head, even, meant $15,000 in his pocket.
“I am going to be lucky,” Sammy said aloud, and fervently. “The bad luck can’t hit me twice in the same place.” And he went on in a dream about Susie Mitchell and the home that was to be theirs. I think that Sammy had begun to idealize her at last. Perhaps she was ceasing to be so much of a habit with him, and becoming rather a passion. Distance and time are apt to work like that on the mind of a lover.
He reached the town by the dawn. He was back again at the herd by the falling of the night, and he found that all had gone well with them during the day. There had been no mishaps. There had been not so much as a single beginning of a stampede. Not a single horse had gone lame and fallen behind. In a word, the record of that glorious first day was not marred by a single scar.
And to see those horses in the daylight. They were not like his other herd—those ugly little rascals from the sunburned deserts of Texas. These creatures had come off good grass and a lazy life. They were sleek and round. And they carried their heads and their shining eyes after the way of free, wild things.
“These horses got sense pretty good,” said one of the Mexicans in tolerable English. “If we get a few good quiet days, they herd like sheep . . . just like sheep.”
And they had good days—three handsome ones. The work was easy. They reached water often enough to keep up the heart of the herd. There was enough grazing grass along the way. And now the herd had become deftly organized. There were certain known leaders that trotted in the van. And the whole procession moved in a great, scattered wedge.
They covered a huge amount of ground. Not during the marching hours, when they were urged along by the riders behind, but in the morning and in the evening when they scattered to feed. And Sammy, staring with delight, would see the rising and the setting sun flash over a whole landscape that was flooded with horseflesh that belonged to him.
And then, on the evening when Sammy estimated a hundred and fifty miles lying behind them—just after they had made camp by a water hole and while the herd was ranging freely to find the best of the bunch grass—just at that quiet time trouble struck them again.
It reminded Sammy horribly of that other night in the mountains thirty miles from Munson, when Manuel had died. But this time the thieves came out of the rolling hills, waving their arms, screaming wildly, and gathering the herd in instant flight before them. Oh, cunning devils. For they turned the rushing mass of horseflesh straight upon the camp. With Sammy’s own property they would destroy him and then make off in safety.
He made for the tall mare in a mad haste. No time for saddling. He had a revolver in one hand, and he wound his other hand into her mane and swung himself up with all his might. He just managed to hook a heel over the sharp ridge of the mare’s back. Then he slumped into place, and, with a side glance, he saw where one of the herders—who had foolishly tried to saddle—was caught and overwhelmed by the sweeping wave of horses. Even the death shriek of the poor fellow was stifled and lost in the roar of the hoofs that beat him to a shapeless mass.
The forefront of that racing world of horses involved Sammy, and then, in another moment, the mustangs were shooting ahead and he was in the rear—in the rear with the three thieves.
Where were the Mexicans? The last two of them sat their horses at a little distance and tucked their rifles into the hollows of their shoulders. A whirl of bullets began. One struck a mustang in the herd just before Sammy and made the poor creature leap with a squeal high into the air.
Aye, and there was another target. For the robber who was nearest to Sammy suddenly tossed up his arms and lunged from the saddle. Then the first fighting madness of his life came to Sammy. There were two thieves left, whirling in their saddles and dumping hasty bullets toward the two cool Mexicans, and they were fast rushing out of range—and four hundred stolen mustangs streaming before them.
All of this whirled through the brain of Sammy. And then he found himself belaboring the ribs of the mare with his heels and rushing her after the herd. He had no means of guiding her. But, in her panic, she naturally took the direction that the rest of her kin were fleeing, and it so happened that the particular route she selected carried her straight at a red-headed ruffian who bestrode a tall roan. One instant he was shouting and waving at the frightened herd. The next, he was wheeling in the saddle and shooting marvelously close at the Mexicans.
And then he saw Sammy and yelled at his companion: “Hey, Jerry, what’s this comin’!”
“A joke, Tom!” shouted the other. “Throw a chunk of lead in the fool.”
“I’ll do that for us!” And, turning in his seat, he snapped his Winchester to his shoulder again and fired pointblank at Sammy, not thirty yards behind.
He was a good shot, was Tom, and, moreover, he fired this time in perfect surety and contempt of his enemy. But, when he looked back again, Sammy was still coming—coming with a wild yell of rage of fearless battle lust.
For Sammy was a man transformed. It is not the pleasure of the gods that the big men alone can go berserk. Little men can do it, also. And Sammy was literally running amuck. Ordinarily he could never have stayed on the back of that long-bounding mare for a single moment without saddle and stirrups to help him and steady him. But he was thinking of something more than a fall to the ground at this moment. And, riding without self-consciousness, he rode very well, balancing himself adro
itly and gripping with his weak knees, and waving above his head one clenched fist and in his other hand the Colt. But he had never shot off a firearm in his life.
He made a weird picture, with that white bandage clasping his head, and his hair flying above the bandage, and his hat blown off, and his unbuttoned sleeves flying up around his shoulders and showing his skinny arms. Have you ever seen a little spindling, nervous weakling of a boy fly into a passion in the schoolyard and make the bigger boys run in sheer terror at the devil that is in him? So it was with Sammy. And big Tom, the horse thief, who had been in many and many a fight, running and standing, before this day, looked back again to see if his odd enemy had not fallen to the ground. And behold, there he was, and now not more than fifteen yards away, and gaining at every leap of his horse. For the mare was a born sprinter.
And fear leaped into the strong heart of Tom. “Help, Jerry!” he screamed, and jerked up the muzzle of his rifle again.
He saw Jerry fire, and he saw the little madman behind him merely laugh, and urge his mare on more swiftly. Even Jerry had missed. Something jammed in the rifle. Tom dropped it with a wild shout of pain and snatched out a revolver.
Time for speed now. For here was Sammy Gregg rushing along not two lengths of a horse behind him. And as big Tom wheeled in the saddle again, Sammy shoved forth his own gun, and set his teeth, and closed his eyes, and fired.
His eyes were still closed when the mare stumbled upon something soft, and went on. He looked before him, and there he saw that the big roan horse galloped, riderless, before him. He glanced behind and there lay a figure sprawled on the ground.
And Sammy Gregg, the mild and the weak, had killed a man with his own hand and in his own right.
Chapter Ten
It would have been too much to expect any qualms of conscience from Sammy. Indeed, he was half mad with the joy of the fight. And he could see that his deed had worked an effect upon the two Mexicans, also. They had left off their useless, long-distance firing, which had only served, after the first death, to bring down two mustangs. Now they were running their ponies as fast as they could to get up to the scene of action.
There would be no time for that, Sammy vowed. He himself would settle the remaining thief. For, if a man can be shot with one’s eyes closed, cannot another be disposed of still more effectually with eyes open? So thought Sammy. And he wanted blood.
He struck the mare a resounding thump on the side of the neck and caused her to swerve violently to the side and head, indeed, straight for the last of the trio. He had not waited for the charge. He had seen two of his companions fall upon this luckless evening, and he was not the stuff that wishes to fight out stubborn campaigns along one line, even if it takes all summer. In fact, he had had enough, for his part, of firing at a lucky, gun-proofed fool of a man like this wild fellow who rode without saddle or bridle—and who waited to come within arm’s reach before he fired his weapon. The third thief, in short, wheeled abruptly away and now was flying for his life.
Sammy would have followed willingly. But when he hammered at the ribs of the mare, it just so happened that one of his heels struck a spot that had already been thumped very sore in that wild evening’s ride. And the mare, at that instant, decided that she had done enough for one day. She set about unseating her rider, therefore, and, although she was a clumsy and most ineffective bucker, the first humping of her back and the very first stiff-legged jump snapped Sammy from her back and deposited him in the dust.
To Sammy it was like a drop into deep sleep from which he was awakened by the voice of a Mexican, a changed voice, no longer snarling and sullen, but filled with respect and gentlest solicitude. So Sammy sat up and blinked fearfully around him. What he saw was the herd, which had been headed by his two hired men, trooping back toward the spot that had been originally selected for that evening. Behind them rode one of the men. The other had come to assist the fallen boss.
He had been a silent man, before this. But now Pedro was transformed. Words ran like water from his lips. He himself had guessed it, and he himself had told his companion, Gonzalez, he vowed, that Señor Gregg was probably a great fighting man. But to rush on bareback in this fashion straight upon a desperado—this was a thing that even he, Pedro, had not expected. For his own part, he would have been on the heels of the villains, long before, had it not been that his scoundrel of a horse—which he hoped to see die in torments!—balked at the last instant and refused to carry his master toward the scene of danger.
All of this while he assisted the dizzy boss into the saddle on that same balky horse and led him back toward the site of the camp. On the way, they paused to examine the three dead men. Their poor comrade they buried where he lay, but in a shallow grave. As for the other two, coyotes and buzzards could attend to their remains. What was of importance to the Mexicans was that they collected no less than $122 from the pockets of the two thieves who had died. And they took, also, excellent revolvers and long rifles of the very latest and best model. They brought this considerable heap of plunder obediently to the chief.
It turned the blood of Sammy cold to see the gold and silver coins from which the body heat of the dead men had hardly yet departed. “Keep the stuff,” he said to Pedro and Gonzales. “Keep the stuff and take the two new horses to ride . . . they’re better and bigger and faster than the ponies you have now.”
If his feats of war that evening had made him seem a new man in the eyes of those savage followers, this stroke of generosity raised him almost above the level of mere humanity. The wages of two months apiece—two precious horses—and revolvers and rifles fit for a king of the plains. Tears stood in their eyes. They could not thank Sammy Gregg. They could only withdraw to a little distance and worship him mutely.
Gonzales whispered softly to his companion: “Did I not guess it from the first? Did I not say, Pedro, that no man would do business with the river horses unless he were a fighting man with nerves of steel? Did I not say it? How he rode in on them. Like a devil . . . with no fear. As if he were riding a colt in my father’s pasture.”
The trail from that day was a changed thing for Sammy Gregg. He was no longer allowed to rise and catch his mare and saddle her in the morning. It was done by swift, skillful, willing brown hands. Neither must he soil his fine hands with cookery or with cleaning of pans in the evening. No, for here were abler and happier cooks, in the persons of his devoted servants, amigo Pedro and amigo Gonzalez. They would have rolled his cigarettes and sung him to sleep if he had wanted them to. In a few brief minutes of one day he had revealed to them the two qualities that, alone, they esteemed—dauntless courage and almost boundless generosity.
Out across leagues and leagues of burning desert now. Day by day, wearily, steadily. They had had weather of only one kind since the start. But on the afternoon of the very day in which the brown of the foothills began to be visible before them, they were treated to a change. Gonzalez saw it first—a haze in the northwest, looking like a distant dust cloud. But, as it drew nearer, they could see that the faint mist extended from the earth to the heavens.
“It is going to storm,” Gonzalez said. “Let us get these horses down into that draw. Hurry, Pedro. Señor Gregg . . . with your help, it may be done. Ride, ride, Pedro, and head them into the draw. The storm will keep them there. But if they have no shelter, they may scatter like feathers in the wind. Spurs, Pedro!”
Pedro was already off like the wind itself.
The sharp eye of Gonzalez had noted a shadow across the surface of the desert to the right, and he knew that here was one of those hollows that might well serve almost like a barn to keep the herd from the edge of the storm. But unluckily they had come into a region of good grass, and the result was that the younger and more eager among the mustangs had pressed far forward, trotting from bunch to bunch, nibbling here, and then rushing on, while the older geldings and mares lingered in the rear.
The result was that Pedro and Gonzalez had far to ride to get to the head o
f the column. And, in the meantime, the mist out of the horizon was growing and changing apace. It reached, indeed, to the very roof of the sky and now it was thickening and blackening. The rim of the storm reached the sun. Instantly the sun was reduced to a dim red ball that seemed to be falling swiftly and silently down the arch of the sky. No, it was only the rush of the storm clouds as they shot across the heavens. They neared the herd.
A close race, surely, for here was Gonzalez ahead of Pedro and almost at the top of the column of horses at the very same moment that the manes and tails of the leaders of the procession began to fan out to the sides, blown by the first breath of the storm wind. But right behind that wind, came the rain itself. Already the sun’s light had been curtained away to sunset colors. Now it was reduced to nothing more than a grisly green twilight. And the storm came head down, reaching level, white, blind arms of rain before it. Flying hands of stinging mist cuffed against the eyes of the mustangs and made them whirl as though they had been struck with whips. They bunched their backs and cowered for a moment, head down.
Sammy Gregg, paralyzed by the violence of the stroke, and stunned by the uproar that crowded against his ears, could only grip the edge of his hat and lean his weight against the wind, and shade his eyes with his other hand to see what was happening with the other men and the horses.
He heard Gonzalez ride by a mere six feet away from him, yelling at the top of his lungs, but in the dreadful screaming of the wind the voice of the big Mexican sounded no louder than a far-off whisper.
“Señor . . . and Pedro! Now is the time! Ride into them, for the love of heaven, and start them across the wind a little. Start them across the wind only a little, and they will reach the draw. Courage . . . and help! Away with you!”
He rode at the huddled horses, firing his revolver, lashing at them with his loaded quirt. The animals blinked and shrank away, and then, one by one, they began to edge off across the wind, staggering as blasts of renewed and freshened violence cuffed at them broadside. Here was Sammy, understanding, now, what was to be done, and fighting desperately to save $15,000 worth of horseflesh that he could still call his own. And Pedro, too, had aroused himself and was laboring valiantly.