Stagecoach

by Max Brand

  But here fortune struck directly against them. At the very moment when the whole herd was in a sort of blind, staggering motion across the wind, heads low down to the ground, ears flattened, spirits dejected—at that very moment, the heavens opened and a yellow torrent of lightning flowed down the gash. Then came thunder like the beating of giant horses on a wooden bridge just above their heads. Roaring, rolling, crashing thunder—as though the whole sky was crumbling and showering to earth in vast fragments about their ears. The heads of the mustangs snapped up, and they stood alert with terror. What were the whips and the shouts of the men compared with this tremendous artillery?

  The sky yawned again. Again the quivering tongues of lightning licked the heart of the heavens and edges of the earth at the same instant. It was more than enough. The horse herd leaped wildly away. The scourges of the wind whipped them along the path. And they rushed back south and east, south and east, toward the land from which they had come.

  Chapter Eleven

  There are two ways to follow a stampeded herd of horses. One is to ride like mad and strive to head them. One is to let them run out of sight and follow at a walk, on the simple principle that a horse will stop running more quickly if he sees that there is no living thing behind him. But when an eighty-mile wind is cutting the hindquarters of a mustang, he is apt to try to run as fast as the wind blows and keep right on as long as the storm and his strength last. So the three riders simply lashed their helms, to speak in naval parlance, and let their craft drift before the wind at its own free will.

  They scudded along at a brisk enough rate all the rest of that day, and, when the early darkness came, the rain was no longer with them, but the wind was, and as far as they could peer across the storm-darkened desert there was not a sign of a horse to be seen ahead of them.

  They made a silent and desolate camp, that night, wringing the wet out of their clothes before they lay down to try to sleep, without a fire to warm them.

  When the sun rose, there was not a cloud in the sky. The wind had fallen away. Before the sun was an hour high, the day was burning hot.

  The rain had left the earth in a condition to hold sign deep and well. After a time they found traces enough of the herd. But what traces. Some had run here and some had run there. Like a fleet of merchantmen cruising here and there and everywhere at the sight of an enemy man of war, the broncos each had followed its own will, and now, in flying clusters, they were breaking for the southland, all in that direction, but doubtless on a seventy-mile front.

  There was not the slightest doubt as to what they should do. They bore off to the right hand as far as they could go, and finally reached the outermost sign of the mustangs. Along that trail they followed. And for two days they rode before they found a wretched score of animals in a clump of cottonwoods. Twenty out of four hundred.

  But they were not done trying. They swung to the east now, and, still bearing south, they drove the mustangs ahead of them as hard as they could. In this fashion they began to pick up some of the rest. In clusters and flying knots, here and there, they found the remnants of that fine herd that had been so well in hand only a few short days before. But some were lost. And some had broken their legs by stepping in the holes of prairie dogs in the blind rush of the stampede, and some had ruined themselves on murderous barbed wire, and some had run into other men who wanted them almost as badly as Sammy Gregg did.

  Still, day after day, getting closer and closer to the point at which they had begun their weary trek, they kept gathering in the mustangs. Until, in due time, they counted noses, considered their position, and decided that they had collected as many as they possibly could. Three long weeks had elapsed since the stampede. Three terribly vital weeks to Sammy, whose eye was on the six months’ limit now. And they had raked together, finally, two hundred and ninety-odd mustangs. More than a quarter of the herd had returned to the desert out of which it had come.

  But Sammy was not down-hearted. He was daunted, but not beaten. And he said to the Mexicans: “Listen to me. My bad luck is used up this time. The pan has been turned upside down and the last bit of that scrambled bad luck has been dumped over my head and shoulders. So the thing for me to do, now, is to push straight ahead. Because we’ll have no more trouble with the horses.”

  He spoke confidently, but Gonzalez sighed and shook his head in a covert despair. He knew horses, did Gonzalez. Not a book knowledge, and not because he loved them, but because he had lived with them more intimately than he had ever lived with men. He had been with them in the desert and in the corral. He had roped and thrown and branded and ridden herd and cared for orphaned colts and dragged foundering broncos out of the mud of water holes. He had been with them for many years, day and night, and he knew horses. Therefore he knew that the trouble with this lot was not over. It was hardly begun. For horses have nerves as much as any pampered women have nerves. There is a grain of madness in every horse, and the better the horse, one might almost say, the nearer that madness is to the surface. Have you seen the thoroughbred come rearing and dancing out of his stable in the morning? Eagerness to go—feeling his oats. A little natural spirit—who wants a dead thing under the saddle?

  Yes, and just a little madness, too. A desire to turn himself into the wind and be blowing across the ridges of the hills—a wild passion for speed, more speed, yet more speed. Madness you must call it—madness or nerves.

  And those mustangs had nerves, too. They had not led pampered lives, but they had nerves that were quickly developed. And lately they had seen the sky turned into a hell of fire. Yes, and they had heard it, too—heard the crashing of the sky as it smashed down upon the earth.

  In the face of this infernal hubbub the human beings had tried to guide them into the teeth of that huge destruction—the human beings who, perhaps, had caused all that wild destruction by their magic.

  High-headed and meant for trouble that herd had been when it came across the river, but still good herdsmanship had kept them in hand. But this was a different matter now. They were transformed. They were as filled with quivering and dancing, as full of shying and snorting and prancing as any unbroken two-year-old thoroughbred. Terror was behind their eyes, and willfulness. They had run through the hands of these men before, and why might they not do it again?

  A horse is the hardest animal in the world to head, next to a stubborn dog. And, like a dog, he pursues one system. He runs straight at you, head stretched out, tail whipped away in a line. He paralyzes you by driving straight at you, and then, when he is close, he swerves far out to one side and flaunts smoothly away.

  Try to catch even one horse—even a tame old veteran of fifteen years’ service under the saddle. Try to catch him when he doesn’t want to be caught some morning. Try to catch him in a half-acre lot and see how long it takes you—until he suddenly remembers some of the lessons of fifteen years and stands still, rigid, stiff, hating you out of the corner of an eye of fire.

  Remember that, and then think of three hundred unbroken mustangs that have recently been frightened almost to death, and who have a hundred thousand square miles to play their tricks in. Then you will have an idea of the problems that lay before Sammy and his two men. Not that the Mexicans were unwilling to work. By the law of their race, having given their hearts to this gringo, they would not be in a hurry to recall their faith again. They would work until the flesh was worn from their hands. But mere work will not serve in the handling of three hundred horses shod with the wind and whipped by hysteria.

  However, by pains, by slow herding, giving the wild creatures time to find themselves, toying with them, never pressing them, the first three days of the return trip went off smoothly enough. And then, by the ill fortune of war, they came within the sight of a railroad track running glimmering across the desert. For an hour or so they roiled slowly toward that double line of living light. And then something else happened.

  From the direction of a patch of shadow on the edge of the horizon—that was a t
own, no doubt—a streak of thunder began to roll out toward them. Thunder, but coming more swiftly than even the thunder of the storm had come. Here it flew—a long black body running without feet. No, for its feet were the thunder to which they listened. Aye, and it cast before it a murmur of dread down the living lines of light that marked the way that it would fly. And above its reeling, swaying, furious front, there was a great black plume, a mile in length, a glorious plume, forever vanishing at the end and forever renewed just above the head of the monster.

  What nerves could stand such a sight? Not those nerves, surely, that had seen the heavens turned to fire so short a time before. The herd tossed up its universal head, and stood and stamped. And then eye flashed to eye. There was a shudder of dread. A sweat of horror started out, glistening upon their drawn flanks.

  “Heaven help us . . . here they go,” Gonzalez murmured.

  And, as he spoke, every horse in that herd whirled about and with flaring manes and burning eyes they stormed away through the hands of Sammy and his men.

  The men did not pursue. They sat their horses, drawing quietly together. They did not speak to one another for so long that their saddle horses forgot the thrill of excitement that had run tingling through their very souls the moment before. They were quiet again, stretching out their heads toward the blades of sun-cured grass that were near.

  Then Sammy said: “It’s a queer thing, Pedro. But why don’t the devils ever take it into their heads to run north?”

  “Ah, señor, because they know that the spur and the quirt and the saddle are waiting for them in the north. However, thank heaven that the heart of the señor is so brave that he can laugh.”

  “I cannot laugh. Gonzalez, you know horses. Tell me . . . can we drive those horses north . . . the three of us?”

  Tears of grief stood in the eyes of Gonzalez. “Ah, señor, we cannot take them. They are all like children now. They are afraid. What can we do with them? They do not understand our language. And to explain one little thing to one horse . . . does it not take a week of months, señor?”

  “We’ll go for help, then,” Sammy said sadly. And he thought of the few dollars in his pocket. “You cut south after them. Follow them slowly, and I’ll ride to the town and hire two more men. I’ve got to get them north. I’m facing a time limit, and that limit is almost up.”

  He turned toward the little shadow out of which the train had rushed. Aye, he must get them north, and when he had them there, he must sell them and collect the money. And then even a fast train East would require some priceless days in addition.

  For the first time he thought of wiring to Susie to give him a little extension of time. But he couldn’t do it. His strength failed him at that point, because it was a matter of pride with him. Six months to make $10,000.

  And here his hands were overflowing with the very prize he wanted, if he could only bring it to the market.

  Chapter Twelve

  A sharp-sided cañon ran past the town, a cañon filled with trees, and a thin sound of running water from the creek that had cut out this little gorge. There was a gaunt skeleton of an iron railroad bridge spanning that gully, and there was an old wooden bridge, too. A buckboard rattled across it as Sammy approached, the planks flopping up and down, no longer nailed, under the rolling of the wheels. And a thin cloud of dust floated up.

  Sammy waved and nodded dumbly to the man in the buckboard. A man of middle age—no more. But with what a face. And when Sammy looked after him, he thought that the bowed shoulders and the bent head made the silhouette of an octogenarian. Was this what this free Western country did to the people who strove to settle in it and wring a living from it with hard toil?

  The first doubt entered the soul of Sammy Gregg like cold iron. He began to feel that he had thrown the product of his life’s labor into a barren ocean. He would never see any return of his money again. Aye, and while he was away, might not the two Mexicans simply slide away from him and start for the comforts of their familiar Southland? There would be a reason behind them—they had his money, and horses, and guns of his giving.

  For the first time in his life, great, cruel doubts began to fill Sammy’s mind. It came to him as a part of his thoughts, rather than as a shocking surprise, when a voice from the brush beside the road said: “Hands up, you bum, or I’ll drill you!”

  Through the shallow screen of greenery, he could see the steady glimmer of the steel barrel of the rifle. Aye, and another rifle beside it.

  “All right,” Sammy said wearily, and raised his hands shoulder high.

  One of the men stepped to the edge of the brush, his rifle at the ready, his guilty eyes glancing up and down the road. After all, they were perilously near the town.

  “Ride your horse in here, kid, and ride it in quick, or we’ll lead the horse in and drag you!”

  Sammy did not need threats to make him obedient. He was not afraid, either, but he had a foolish desire to laugh, greatly and idly; he was only afraid to give way to the laughter for fear that tears would follow on the heels of it.

  The brush switched together behind him. He found his arms clutched on either side, but as a strong pair of fingers gripped him, he heard the fellow snort: “Why, Steve, he ain’t got no arm at all. Like a girl, darned if it ain’t. Go easy with him.”

  They guided Sammy and his horse down a steep slope to the bottom of the ravine. There they made him dismount. They stripped off his coat, first, and then, when they had mastered his wallet, they counted out the contents.

  “Two hundred and eighty-five dollars! Kid, maybe we ain’t in luck.”

  “And a suit of clothes, too . . .”

  “The devil! What good would that do us? Am I a blackbird, maybe, that I could step into his togs? Not if I shrunk down to what I was at twelve years old. Look at the gats he packs, too. A regular soldier, this bo is. A regular hero, maybe. Hey, kid, did you ever shoot one of them guns?”

  He handled one of the Colts familiarly under the nose of Sammy. But Sammy replied nothing. He felt that he could see to the bottom of his future now.

  To return not with $15,000—but with nothing. To go back there empty-handed. To say to Susie: “I’ve got to start all over again.”

  And then she would say: “How long did it take you to make the last five thousand, Sammy?”

  Ten years. It had taken him ten years to make the money the last of which was now to be divided between these ruffians. They were conferring a little apart, only fixing him with grim side glances. But, as they talked, so great was their contempt for him that they allowed him to overhear them.

  “Suppose we tie him up and leave him here?”

  “Aw, even if we let him go, he won’t have the nerve to come back and make no trouble. Not him. He’s scared stiff.”

  “Take no chances, I say, bring him in and let the chief have a look at him.”

  “Why should the chief know about it at all? Why not skin out with this stuff? If the chief hears about it, he’ll have to come in for his share.”

  “Why, you blockhead, do you think that not telling him would keep him from knowing?”

  “Well, maybe not. He’s got ways of finding out. But if we was stowed on the rods and bound East . . .”

  “You are batty, Steve. Would you try to get away from him?”

  “Aw, I dunno. He ain’t a god.”

  “He’s his nephew, then. No. We take the swag in and show it to him. Come along. We take in the boob, too, and ask the chief what to do with him.”

  They led Sammy Gregg, accordingly, through a screen of shrubbery into a clearing and there he saw a thing that he had read of in books, before, but never seen. A tramps’ jungle.

  There are few of such jungles in the West now. There was still fewer then. Even for scoundrels, there were easier ways of making a living than to skulk from town to town, robbing hen roosts and pilfering small articles. It was precarious, too, that life of petty thievery. Because one never could tell when one would be hunted down by sw
ift horsemen and queried abruptly at the point of a revolver. But there were always a few to whom exertion of any lawful kind was so mortally uncomfortable that they would risk death itself rather than do an hour’s labor for a dollar. There will always be such men. They are the spice of the underworld. Men who would invite death by exhaustion and the tortures of hunger and thirst rather than work comfortably a few hours a day, for three meals, sound clothes, and extra money to spend at their leisure. But they, the floating scum of the world, who exist only because they love freedom, are the only people in the world who do not know what leisure means.

  For the first time, Sammy looked upon a collection of tramps not large, but rare. A scant seven or eight were lolling about the clearing with their hands occupied in odd jobs of mending or laundry. They started up when Sammy entered.

  Steve stopped their grinning queries at once. “Where’s the chief?” he said. “Has he left already?”

  “No, he’s asleep.”

  “Well, wake him up and tell him that we got a haul.”

  One or two hurried into the shade of a tall, wide-spreading tree through which the sun fell and reached the ground in scattered spots and irregular patches of gold. Stretched there, half in sun and half in shadow, with a green heaven of branches above his head, and scatterings of the sweet blue beyond, the chief slept like a happy child, with his arms thrown out crosswise, on either side of him. He was gradually dragged to a sitting posture, reluctant to yield to their hands.

  “But Steve and Lew have brung in a bird and some coin on him, chief,” they argued. “And you’ve been wanting some money.”

  “Stolen money? Who the devil told you that I want stolen money?” responded a voice that was oddly familiar in the ear of Sammy Gregg. “Take that man away. I don’t want to see him, and I don’t want to see his money.”