Curry

by Max Brand

  His face was worth long and careful observation. Conscious that he had played too many cards, and that he had not only showed his hand but also lost the game, had convulsed his naturally handsome features and made his complexion livid. For a long moment he remained staring down at the chair as though the broad form of Bill Ross were still ensconced in it. Then he thrust his drawn revolver back into its holster, and, with a dark scowl on those who stood about the room, he stalked rapidly out of it.

  Instantly there was a breath of relief drawn by every man, and a single expression burst from their lips: “That kid will come to no good end.”

  X

  A pleasant bass voice greeted Charlie Mark as he passed through the door. He turned sharply, but his eyes were veiled by his passion; it was a few seconds before he was able to recognize in the tall bulky form of the rancher who leaned against the wall that same J. C. Butler who had so unmercifully trimmed him on the train. He was rolling a cigarette. And Charlie Mark noted, with disgust and surprise, that Butler looked as much at home in his rough outfit as he had looked on the train in civilized clothes. He was quite at ease in the simple but exacting task of rolling the cigarette, and, while he tapped the side of the smoke to jog the tobacco down in the paper, he looked with a quiet smile at Charlie Mark.

  “Hello,” was his greeting. “You out here playing the small time?”

  Charlie Mark paused. $32,000 of his money was in the possession of that fat, amiable-looking grafter. Bill Ross was suddenly half forgotten.

  “What do you mean?” asked Charlie Mark. “What do you mean by small time?”

  Butler glanced around and made sure that no one was near.

  “Tut, tut,” he said. “I don’t blame you. I’m doing it myself. Amazing amount of money around here, but not such easy work to get it out. Matter of fact, I’m a couple of thousand down just now myself. And as for you … well, son, you may pick up a good deal of experience on this circuit, but I’m hanged if I see how you can make traveling expenses. Are you daubing them or using the peg?”

  The cant of the professional gambler flowed smoothly from his tongue. And a great, quick-born hope kept Charlie Mark from indulging in the stream of profanity to which his instincts urged him.

  “Is your partner with you?” he asked.

  “Warner? He’s working up a little stuff for me down the road. He’s working light, though. I carry the wad. I’m the rich fall guy, you see, and he gets these rubes all fixed for plucking me. Just now I’m up here doing a little bit for myself … and not doing very well, as I said before. However, I’ve planted the little old tin can here full of green boys, and I guess I’ll break even before I quit.”

  It was astonishing to hear the glib ease with which he gossiped with his victim. Charlie Mark gazed upon the big man with a touch of awe. Would he himself ever be able to summon such effrontery?

  “What I wonder,” he said, “is why you are still working. I should think you’d have retired long ago.”

  “I have plenty for myself, lad,” said Butler. “But I need a few nest eggs to start the girls, three charming daughters. You must come and look us over one of these days.”

  “I hope,” said Charlie Mark, with a good grace that surprised himself more than it surprised Butler, “that my thirty-two thousand will make them happy.”

  “One of them,” corrected Mr. Butler. “It will keep Alice in automobiles this year, I hope. The dear girl has taken a fancy to fast cars, and the way she crumples them up is shameful.”

  “Must be,” grunted Charlie Mark. “I’ll see you later.”

  Turning his back on the old rascal, he wandered off by himself. A plan was growing rapidly to maturity in his brain. The elderly gambler had stated that his capital was sunk in the hotel tin can, or safe. That capital must be very large indeed. In order to win a great deal of money, a gambler on the scale of Butler must be prepared to lose a great deal, also, from time to time. There might be in that safe $20,000 to $30,000—or even more. Suppose, then, that a crafty yegg were to blow that safe. Would not the haul be fairly rich, with the money of other guests of the hotel included?

  To be sure, he was no expert in safe-cracking, but, then, everyone had to make a start sooner of later at what they do, and this was as good a time as any to learn his first practical lesson, be revenged on Butler, and gain, at the same time, some needed recreation.

  It was a dangerous job, but that added to the pleasure.

  He returned to the ranch and spent the rest of the day accumulating what he needed—dynamite from which the soup was to be made, yellow laundry soap for his mold in which to run the explosive around the door of the safe, and a fuse with which to send off the charge. It required some adroit rummaging to get all that he needed, but since his father occasionally took a turn through the mountains, harking back to earlier days by doing a bit of prospecting and mild mining, Charlie was able to get what he needed.

  In the early evening, just after dinner, he excused himself, saddled a horse, and jogged off with his kit of implements for the safe-cracking. No questions were asked, for it was an old trick of his to slip out into the night for no express goal and return at odd hours in the morning. He had decided upon completely horrifying and baffling the men of Hampton by leaving behind him, after the blowing of the safe, the mark by which Jim Curry, in his former days of outlawry, had been in the habit of branding his work—an open hand roughly sketched on a board with the point of a knife. Charlie Mark had practiced the trick until it was as fluently at his command as at the command of Jim Curry himself. Tonight he would use it, and thereby, for Bill Ross, identify himself as the robber.

  But what could Bill Ross do? He could not bring accusations without evidence to back them up, and that evidence he would never get.

  It was midnight before Charlie’s fire in the slough bed had cooked the soup, and, when that precious liquid had been drawn off and bottled with care, Charlie Mark gathered his materials together and made on again toward the town, cutting in from the back.

  He came past the barn of Sheriff Nance, his mind going vividly back to that pleasant occasion on which he had robbed the sheriff. There he left his horse, for it was not a long distance from the barn to the hotel, and the shadow behind the barn made an excellent place to conceal his mount.

  He paused again to arrange one more pleasing detail, which was to place a red wig on his head and let a handkerchief fall over his face by way of a mask. Then he hurried on toward the scene of action.

  The hotel was utterly quiet. For that matter, so was the village street; folks led busy lives in Hampton, and consequently they went to bed early. There was only one lighted window, and that in the highest story of the old hotel. He, of course, could not tell who was in that room, yet he might have guessed the truth—that it was Bill Ross, kept awake by shame and the tormenting knowledge that he must find some manner of following up a clue that would reveal the murderer, the outlaw, the self-confessed bandit, to the good people of the town.

  No clue or hope for a clue was revealed to the patient searcher. Hour after hour he had sat in his room with his elbows planted on the edge of the table and his face buried in his hands. And nothing occurred to him, nothing he might do to draw away the curtain and show the world the truth about Charlie Mark.

  Midnight passed. 1:00 had come, and he was turning toward his bed when the hotel was shaken as though a sudden gust of wind had struck it. Instantly afterward the blow was followed by a deep, choked report.

  That noise wakened the miner brain of Bill Ross, and he forgot his troubles. His hat was on his head at once, his revolver in his hand, and he plunged down the stairs to the first floor where a strange, thick, disagreeable odor greeted his nostrils.

  By the wreckage he was led to the scene of the disaster. For that matter, had he been in doubt, a dozen voices and a dozen lights, which now appeared, would have led him to the place. They stumbl
ed back through the lobby and to the little room that served as an office for the proprietor. There he stood, white of face, his fat hands pressed silently together. He was in his nightgown, the draft wagging the bottom of the garment about his red, fat knees. And as they rushed in, he merely raised his wan face toward them with eyes that seemed about to bulge out of their sockets.

  “Who … what … how …?”

  And then a chorus of oaths made up the first outburst of the cowpunchers who were staying overnight in the hotel, and who had turned out to examine into the cause of the disturbance.

  But Bill Ross was attracted by a calm voice, saying, “I’m not surprised. I thought this might happen tonight.”

  And he turned and saw a tall, fleshy man a little bent with years, and with a reddish, kindly face.

  “Second guessers always guess right,” said Bill Ross. “But who done it?”

  For answer the proprietor raised his hand and pointed toward a corner of the room. Instantly half a dozen men crowded in that direction. There, rudely carved into the wood, was the well-known and dreaded sign of the Red Devil, a hand drawn on the board.

  Bill Ross leaped to the center of the room.

  “Gents,” he said, “I see Sheriff Nance coming. I suppose he has the job of saying where we should go, but I want to ask half a dozen of you to foller me. Will you come?”

  “Lead the way,” said Sheriff Nance, taking in the situation and the brand of the destroyer in a glance. “We’ll all follow. Heaven help you, though, if you’re playing crooked.”

  There was a joyous shout from Bill Ross.

  “Get you hosses pronto, and them that start late, ride like blazes straight out for the old Mark place.”

  XI

  This, of course, was exactly what Charlie Mark expected the pursuers to do, and he planned to beat them just far enough to enable him to reach the ranch. There he could unsaddle his own horse, turn it into a pasture where it would soon remove all sign of the ride by a roll in the dust, and then rush to the house, throw off his clothes, and present a picture of bored nonchalance when the posse arrived. He could well be sure that every member of the household would have been asleep for so long that they would not know when he had returned from his ride. But everyone could truthfully state that since his boyhood it had been his habit to take such rides—which should remove all suspicion from the minds of everyone saving Bill Ross, who knew the truth.

  As for the loot from the safe, it would not be too hard to dispose of. Out of the midnight incursion the total profits of Charlie Mark were $32. Butler, shrewd old thief that he was, had talked of trusting the safe, but in reality the only steel he had confidence in was the steel of his own watchfulness. Charlie Mark writhed when he thought how easily he had been taken in.

  He writhed, and then he took out some of his anger on the horse the moment he had swung into the saddle, for he struck the little mustang with both spurs and quirt. This was very foolish, because the mustang was a Roman-nosed roan with a habit of thinking for himself. To be struck with the quirt was all a matter of course, and to be stabbed with the spurs was also a pain that he must accept in a day’s work, but to receive two blows at once, to his way of thinking, was entirely too much. Consequently he burst into a fury of bucking.

  Bitterly vital minutes were wasted there behind the village, minutes during which Charlie Mark heard the tumult hastening through the town before he was able to make his horse bolt away across the fields.

  Would he be far enough ahead now to accomplish all the things he had said he must do? He rode the distance to the ranch house like mad, often glancing behind him, but the ups and downs of the way cut him off from a chance to watch the road for any great distance behind him. At the ranch, he snatched the saddle off the mustang, threw it into the shed, whipped the roan through the gate into the pasture, and then rushed for the house, undressing on the way.

  But he was too late.

  From the window of his room he saw them coming down the road like mad—a full score of men lashing their horses.

  The door clicked. He turned and saw Jim Curry just behind him.

  “Put up your gat,” said Jim Curry contemptuously, for at the first light sound the weapon had leaped into the hand of Charlie Mark. “I knew you’d be up to some sort of cussedness tonight. I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it.”

  Charlie Mark glanced wildly at the half dressed figure behind him, then turned and pointed down the road. In half a minute or very little more they would be at the house, and in that case he could not possibly get out of clothes that were redolent of fresh sweat. One glance through the window had told the story to Jim Curry.

  “You fool,” he said, “why did you come here?”

  “The horse balked with me,” muttered Charlie Mark, “and …”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “What can I do? I haven’t time to get to the pasture and rope another horse and … Lord, what will Father say? What will he do to save me …?”

  He was pressed back against the wall, his nerve fast leaving him, his hands shaking. That mention of the father was a blow to Jim Curry. He remembered in a flash all the long list of the rancher’s kindnesses to him—all the words of Ruth concerning what might happen if the foster son were found out by the law in a criminal act—not what would happen to Charlie Mark, but to the doting old man who had adopted him.

  And he saw in a flash a way of repaying the father and of obeying the girl. It was bitterly hard. It meant alienating Henry Mark forever; it meant turning the mind of the girl so that she would loathe him and the very thought of him. But after all, was it not true that he could never aspire to her hand? There was too much in his past that might someday be known.

  These things darted through his brain all in the space of the half second while he stood staring at the rapidly approaching cavalcade of horsemen. He turned on Charlie Mark with a curse that was a groan.

  In an instant he was in his room. To jump into trousers, hook cartridge belt over his left arm, and draw the revolver, was the act of a moment. He rushed through the hall, past the stupefied Charlie Mark, only pausing to lay a crushing grip upon his shoulder and say, “I’m giving you a chance. I’m stepping into fire … not for your sake, but for the sake of the old man. Charlie, brace up and in heaven’s name be a man. Will you try?”

  Jim waited for no answer, but plunged down the hall, dashed open a window at the far end, and climbed into it. The next instant he jumped through, and his feet thudded on the roof of the kitchen below.

  A second more, and a shrill yell broke from the posse. Then guns exploded. Charlie Mark raced for the window and hung in it, breathless. There across the yard toward the pasture fled Jim Curry, running as he had never seen man run before. The quick eyes in the posse had instantly seen him jump—as now they were spurring hard to cut him off from the horses in the pasture, riding with their flashing guns poised to shoot.

  And as Jim Curry ran, he raised his voice and sent a wild calling thrilling ahead of him: “Meg! Oh, Meg!”

  The heart of Charlie Mark leaped into his throat. He hated and dreaded Jim Curry, and yet with all his soul he now prayed that the gunfighter might escape. In fact, a silver form, thin as mist in the distant night, detached itself from among the crowd of darker horses in the pasture and swept at a gallop toward the fugitive. It was white Meg coming to the call of the master, white Meg, who in the days of his outlawry, had so often saved the life and limb of Jim Curry.

  She came again, like a white flash as she gathered headway. And the posse, making out what was in danger of happening—their prey carried off from under their noses, so to speak—let loose a volley of curses and shots.

  At the same time Ruth and her father came down the hall and reached Charlie’s side with a rush.

  “Who …?” she began, and then answered her own question. “Jim is out there, and all thos
e …”

  “Jim?” mocked Charlie Mark. “I tell you it’s the Red Devil and making his last run, at that. They’re going to get him.”

  “The Red Devil?” cried the girl and her father in one breath.

  White Meg rose at the fence, cleared it like a bird, and the next moment Jim Curry was on her bare back and, guiding her with the pressure of his hand, had sent her racing off and over the top of a slight eminence out of view. After the rider streamed the posse, their guns crackling like mad as they realized that in another two minutes mare and rider, at that terrific, racing gait, would be beyond capture.

  And then Charlie Mark was roused by a sound of broken-hearted weeping beside him, and looked and saw Ruth Mark staring after the pursued with the tears streaming down her cheeks; beside her was the tense, agonized face of the old man. And a sudden softening came over the heart of Charlie Mark.

  The great sacrifice had been made for his sake, it seemed—not for him so much as for the girl and her father, no doubt, but, nevertheless, here was a man who was laying down his life that another man, a worthless man, might have a chance to live.

  His sombrero had remained on the head of Charlie. He dragged it off instinctively and let the chill air of the night blow around his temples.

  From the distance a more and increasingly scattered echo of gunshots blew back to them, and at length the noise died out. Plainly the Red Devil was loose once more, and beyond the pursuit.

  the end

  About the Author

  Max Brand is the best-known pen name of widely acclaimed author Frederick Faust. Born in Seattle in 1892, orphaned early, Faust grew up in the rural San Joaquin Valley of California. At Berkeley he became a student rebel and one-man literary movement, contributing prodigiously to all campus publications. Denied a degree because of unconventional conduct, he embarked on a series of adventures culminating in New York City where, after a period of near starvation, he received simultaneous recognition as a serious poet and successful author of fiction. Later, he traveled widely, making his home in New York, then in Florence, and finally in Los Angeles.