by Max Brand
Bill Tenney looked up, half prepared to see some wide-winged owl, the bird of Sweet Medicine, floating above the valley. But he saw nothing. He only heard, while his glance was still in the upper air, the sudden clang of three rifles, fired almost in a volley. The sound did not come welling up from the bottom of the ravine. Instead, it hammered right across from the opposite lip of the cañon. Tenney saw the wisps of smoke rising, and three men clad in deerskins rising from behind the rocks that had sheltered them so securely.—Was it murder?
Into the valley Tenney’s eye plunged, and saw there the medicine man—the hero—the glory and the ideal of his eye—lying prone on his face. The major was running forward.
Across the valley rang the shout of the three marksmen, and up from the floor of the cañon drifted the triumphant yell of the major.
He was the nearer, the more vital danger; and so Bill Tenney, rifle jerked to the shoulder, sent a slug straight for the body of Major Marston. The major side-stepped like a dancer, and flung himself down behind a rock. In fear of the plunging fire from above, he dared not look out and try to return the bullets. He had simply to hug the back of the big boulder that shielded him.
From across the valley, three rifle bullets sped at Bill Tenney and smashed upon the rocks about him. He crawled behind a split rock that would serve him like a breastwork with a loophole in it, and through that he fired at the first target that offered.
There was ice, not blood, in Bill Tenney’s brain now. The thing that he had seen, the most foul murder of Rusty Sabin, was like boyhood recollection of a tale told on a winter evening.
It was not Rusty who lay prone, down there—Rusty could not be killed. Sweet Medicine would turn those terrible bullets with the invisible flat of his hand.
Tenney looked down again, and indeed the prone body had stirred. It was still moving, lifting its head, and a thin signal whistle sped down the ravine. That whistle brought the White Horse on the run. But it would also bring a fresh rain of bullets from the three murderers on the opposite height.
Bill Tenney, as he re-loaded his rifle, caught sight of a head and shoulders rising from behind the shelter of the boulders near the rim-rock, taking aim. Without time for care, he used a snap shot. He knew, as he pressed the trigger, that the bullet would strike home. In fact, the tall man in deerskins leaped up and dived into the thin air over the brow of the rock, jumping as if into water. His arms were extended stiffly above his head, his body twisted into a knot of pain. But half-way to the ground all that tension went suddenly out of him, and it was a loose, dead thing that Tenney saw strike the floor of the cañon. He saw, and he heard it. And he heard also the thin yells of the Laviers as they plastered two more bullets on the rocks about him.
Well, if they could be kept from firing on the wounded man down in the valley, he did not care how much they drilled away at him.
He saw the White Horse kneeling down beside the master. He saw Rusty with small agonized efforts drag himself over the back of the stallion, wind his hands in the mane, and collapse. He saw the White Horse rising, gently, head turned as though watching the weight that hung loosely on him. Then, at a smooth lope that was like the swaying of an easy wind, the great horse went down the valley!—Had Rusty been saved for another chance at living?
No, for a yell of savage pleasure came from across the ravine, and Tenney saw that Rusty was slipping far to one side, inert, with life and power only in his hands to keep him on the White Horse! Then a shoulder projecting from the main valley wall screened Rusty from sight, though it was plain that in another moment he would be falling.
CHAPTER 37
On the floor of the valley, the major, risking gunfire, was darting back to catch his horse and resume the chase. Of the trio of murderers, the two who remained were vaguely glimpsed by Bill Tenney as they withdrew from their covert. No doubt they would be taking covert, also, and trying to come up to the quarry. And Bill Tenney’s place was down there in the thick of the thing—down there with Rusty Sabin.
He flung himself on the back of his mustang. The yell that came out of his throat was a Cheyenne cry. He hurled his pony along the verge of the cliff.
A steeply slanting, dangerous slope appeared before him. He sent the horse down it. The poor little mustang cringed, but he spurred it savagely. He lifted it with his whip, a stroke that drew blood, and presently it was sidling, slipping, dodging and swerving down the Devil’s Slide. Twenty feet from the bottom, the ground jumped out from under its feet; and horse and man toppled headlong onto the valley floor.
But the horse was a cat and the man a tiger. Tenney was in the saddle again before the tough little broncho was on its feet, and he raced the horse up the ravine to the rescue.
Rescue? No, that was not the thought that was in his mind. One man, even one man like Tenney, could not deal with three expert fighters. He rode so furiously—well, he could not have told exactly why. It was not to save his “brother.” It was rather to see that Rusty Sabin did not die alone!
Just around the big, projecting rock at the side of the valley he found Rusty, toppled on the ground, his limbs twisted together. The great White Horse stood over his fallen master. He lifted his head. Surely it was a note of appeal that he sent thundering to Bill Tenney!
There seemed no life in Rusty. He lay half on his back, his eyes partially open. On his lips was a faint smile. That was the way the dead lie, thought Tenney; and he dug his hands into the hair of his head and tugged.
“God—I’m pullin’ my hair out like a woman!” he said to himself.
He was blind. He was sick.
Then he saw that Rusty’s wounds were still bleeding. There were three of them—shoulder, side and thigh. They were still bleeding freely, and dead men don’t bleed. The heart stops pumping, and there isn’t any flow.
Bill Tenney flung up one hand to the sky at that. If he had known enough Cheyenne, he would have made his prayer to Sweet Medicine to stop the gaping mouths of the wounds and prevent Rusty’s life from flowing away. But the Sky People, if they were worth anything, would be able to read even a white man’s mind.
Then he picked up the body. It was limp. The head and legs hung down. He had to shift the weight, and the shifting made the blood well suddenly from Rusty’s side. It flowed down over Bill Tenney’s body. He could feel the warmth of it.
“My God! My God!” said Tenney. “If only I could run some of my blood into you—brother!”
He saw how the rock was cloven away at the base, receding twenty feet or more, the outer lip fringed with boulders as with teeth. That was where he would find a refuge and tie up the wounds.
He ran then, flexing his knees, and turning up his feet so that he would not stumble. The White Horse was following, snuffing at his master, flattening his ears and shaking his head threateningly at Bill Tenney. The White Horse followed right into the cave beneath the cliff.
“A hell of a cave!” said Tenney.
For the great mouth yawned open on all three sides, inviting invasion; and the hoofbeats of the running horses down the valley drummed soft on the sand and loud on the rocks.
In his hands, his clothes became like paper. He ripped them off and made them into bandages. He bound the bandages around the wounds, after he had clogged the mouths of the rifle-holes with loose, dry dust.
Rusty, with his eyes slightly parted, lay on his back, moving only as Tenney moved him.
Then a gun boomed, and it seemed to fill the ears of Tenney with thunder. It drove a red rod of pain across Tenney’s back, all through the thick muscles of his shoulders. Glancing across the shoulder-blades, the bullet had sliced its way, and the blood ran out.
“I’ve got him!” shouted Major Marston’s voice. “Now in—and finish ’em both.—Now in at ’em. Come on, boys!”
They came. The major ran with a silent grin that showed his teeth. The two Laviers came screaming, almost as though they were shrieking in fear. But they were merely mad for the kill. Tenney knew that.
&nbs
p; He had to move slowly. There was not much strength in his arms. The nerves seemed to have been cut. There was not much strength in his back, either.
He sat up and swayed to his knees. From the ready, he fired a slug into the breast of one of those screaming men who were charging; and the fellow spilled sidewise across the course of his brother so that he tripped him flat. Tenney smashed the butt of his rifle into the skull of that second man.
But then the major was at him. His rifle was empty because he had just sent its bullet into Tenney’s back. Now he gave the big fellow the barrel along the head, and whacked him back against the face of the rock.
It might have brained another man. It only knocked red sparks and jumping flames across Tenney’s eyes. And the blood ran down in one gush across his face.
“Now for you, Sabin!” he heard the major yell.
But Tenney grasped with his great arms at the legs that were striding past him, and the major stumbled and fell. Then terrible blows began to rain on Tenney’s head.
They merely cleared his eyes, however, and he was able to see Rusty rising on one elbow—rising as if out of death, and smiling a little, still in pain, with a smile that was like death. He sat up, and in his hand there was the curving sheen of the great knife which he had forged with his own hands, long ago in the blacksmith shop. And the man prayed—even in the midst of battle, one swift lifting of hand and eyes to Sweet Medicine.
The major, kicking himself loose from Tenney at last, swung his rifle to brain Rusty Sabin.
“Now down—damn you!” screamed the major.
Rusty leaned forward on his left hand; and with the right, he thrust out the length of the knife into the body of Major Arthur Marston. The rifle came smashing down, but not on Rusty’s head. It hit the rock just behind him, and the stock snapped off.
The major staggered. He got hold of Rusty Sabin’s knife hand, and he seemed to pull the knife deeper into his mortally wounded body. Perhaps he was only steadying himself for the second stroke, to be delivered with the bare barrel of the heavy rifle. But as that stroke heaved up above his head, and as Rusty raised a hand to ward off the blow, the major’s knees buckled both to one side. He came down on them with a lurch.
He twisted himself over and tried to pull out the knife, but he merely succeeded in widening the wound horribly, slashing it to the side.
“God!” breathed the major. “A—a damned—a white—Indian. . . .”
The major was dying, and Tenney knew it. He dragged himself past the soldier with a rush, and got to Rusty. Rusty was struggling weakly to sit up, but all the strength suddenly went out of him and he slipped down on his side. And Tenney’s great hands were dangling loosely, helplessly. What could he do with them?
Once, he had been able to break the back of a man with those hands; but now he could not find a grip on the fleeing soul of his friend. He could only drop to his knees and peer into the white face.
The hair above it seemed like a weltering flame. The blue eyes were not pinched with pain; they were wide open—clear, and full of unspoken words.
Rusty made toward Bill Tenney a gesture of infinite gratitude and affection. He smiled in the face of the man who was known as a thief. But he gave him no words. Because, of course, there was no need of words between them.
“Maisry—” he said.
Bill Tenney slid a trembling, weak arm under Rusty’s shoulders and supported half the weight of that body. It was not a great weight. There had been a time when Tenney despised all except big men, huge-handed men like himself. But that was in the distant past, in that small, obscure portion of his existence before the days of his companionship with Rusty. Now he knew that there is a thing of mind and of spirit which is even greater than flesh. Here, with the strength of his hand, he was upholding a worker of miracles who still would have to submit to the last and greatest miracle of all, the coming of death.
“Aye—tell me about Maisry,” said Bill Tenney, softly.
“Tell her that I died thirsty for her,” said Rusty. “I am thirsty for her!—More than summer and long marches ever made me thirsty for water. And if—”
His eyes closed. A slight shudder went through him, and Tenney, with a leaping agony in his heart, was sure that even as quietly as this, like a breath of wind through a door, like a gleam of light over a river, his friend had left him.
But with closed eyes, Rusty spoke again, to say, “Where are you, brother?”
“Here!—Here!” said Tenney. “Rusty, don’t be wasting your breath on Maisry. No woman is worth it. No man, either. Think of your Sweet Medicine. Go on and say a prayer—to him that’s helped you so much. He can help you again.”
But Rusty would only say, “You know the blue of water at the end of a long march, when the horses are staggering and the men force themselves to grin, because of the pain in their throats? I feel that way about the blue of her eyes.—Tell her that, brother.” His eyes were still closed.
“Rusty, will you hear me?” groaned Tenney. “Make a prayer now to Sweet Medicine.”
“There is no need to pray to him,” said Rusty. “He is near enough to see me. I hear a rushing sound in my ears, and what can that be except the wings of Sweet Medicine?—But speak to Maisry. Words from a friend who is far away are better than food. Words from the dead must be better than honor given by a great tribe. Tell her that I loved her—she has loved me—and the love of two people must go on living, even when they are both dead.”
“Those are hard things to remember,” said Tenney. “But I’ll never forget. The love of two people—you mean it goes on like a ghost that walks.”
“Aye. Like a kind ghost,” said Rusty. “Tell her—”
His head fell over, suddenly, weakly, against Tenney’s arm, and a faint sigh ended his words.
Tenney laid the loose body on the ground, softly. He pressed his face close to Rusty’s heart, and heard no beat. Was he dead? The eyes of dead men should remain half open, it was said, and yet Rusty’s eyes were closed.
“He’s dead,” said the major’s voice, stepping into the broken current of Tenney’s thoughts. “He’s dead—the red rat!—D’you think I’d pass out without taking at least one life along with me?”
Tenney lifted his dazed head and saw that the major had managed to put his back against a rock, had at last managed to jerk out the knife.
Now he held his two hands over the rent in his body; but still the blood forced its way rapidly out between the fingers.
Tenney picked up the dripping knife.
“D’you want to hurry me out?” said the major.
“No,” said Tenney. “I wouldn’t hurry you. If there was life worth saving in you, I’d tie you up and nurse you back to strength, so that I could kill you all over again.—I’d make you last. I’d make you last days—and days—”
The major nodded.
“You and I could understand each other,” said he. “But that red-headed fool on the ground, there—nobody could understand him. He’s a cross between a baby and an old man, with a lot of the fool mixed in all the way. You never could get anything out of him.”
“He called me brother,” said Tenney, slowly; and then he added, “I wish to God there was a way of holding the life in you till I’ve done what I could think of doing to you, major!”
“It’s too late,” said the major. “The blood’s draining out of me, and my eyes are getting dim.—I can still see the red of Sabin’s hair, though.”
“Aye, and your lips are blue.”
“That’s because there’s the taste of death on them,” said the major.
His voice was a little fainter now.
A grim curiosity carried Tenney’s mind even away from his grief.
“How does it feel?” he asked, wonderingly.
“Like lacking air.—Like the middle of summer. And not enough air.—But it’ll soon be over. . . . I could take my hands away from the cut, and I’d go out like a breath. . . .”
“You’re a cool man—an
d a brave man,” said Tenney, willing to admire even the man he hated most. “And if you’d let Rusty work on you the way he worked on me, you could have been a good man and a right man, before you passed out!”
“Let him work on me?—He’s worked enough on me,” said the major. “I’ve had my hand closed, almost, on the woman I wanted. And he’s forced my hand open, and taken her away again.—I’ve had a reputation in my grip, and he’s smashed it like an egg, and made a fool of me.—He’d broken my life before he ever ran his knife into me.—That’s the work he’s done.”
“Because you stood against him, like a fool. Like a log trying to swim up against a river. That was you!”
“Aye,” said the major, suddenly submitting to the idea. “And maybe you’re right, after all.—But where did he ever get his strength?”
“Out of the sky,” said Tenney, credulously, lifting his hand to point.
The major attempted to laugh his scorn of that answer, but the blood burst out of him, suddenly, and he began to choke. He fell on his face and kicked at the sands. He bit at the ground like a mad dog. And that was how he died, with Tenney staring, overwhelmed, seeing in this a fresh miracle, a blow struck by the sightless hand of Sweet Medicine.
Big Bill Tenney was still looking down at death when he heard a murmur behind him, and turned with a gasp of terror. For in fact he thought that the god of the Cheyennes, in ghostly person, would be seen standing behind him.
And those who see the gods, unless they be like Rusty Sabin, cannot live long.
But there was no strange vision before him. The sound came from Rusty’s parted lips, the words stumbling slowly from them—words that had no meaning. But there was the breath of life behind them, and Bill Tenney shouted suddenly, gone mad with joy.
Somehow, Bill Tenney got Rusty into a better place, away from that terrible slaughter. He laid him on saddle blankets, heaping sand under them for a head rest.