The Winged Horse

by Max Brand

  He said this with a certain amount of fire, his eyes shining, and his head back. The old man, his chin resting on his breast, his pipe forgotten and going out in his hand, watched, and listened, and pondered. Silence fell between them, so deep a silence that the Lamb could hear the flutter of the flames on the hearth as they snapped off and sailed toward the black mouth of the chimney.

  “You’ve said your piece. You’ve talked right out,” the old man said slowly, his words grating out so that they were almost indistinguishable.

  “I seen where I had to talk turkey or eat mud,” said the boy. “That’s why I didn’t try to lie.”

  Monty Montague shrugged his ancient, thin shoulders. “What urged you on, kid?”

  “The gunmen that you got behind all these three doors … and the keys that you’ve got twisted in the locks on the far side.”

  At this the ancient grinned suddenly, his eyes lighting. “I take to you a good deal, kid,” he said. “I take to you a pile, I gotta say. I cotton to you, in fact.” Then he puffed hard at his pipe, and the almost dead spark was rekindled and grew and spread in a red flush across the bowl, and the clouds of smoke issued forth once more and drifted up to join the mist that formed across the ceiling and made a soft silver gloom there. “It’s the balancin’ of the scale,” he finally continued. “If you aim to double-cross me, you might bust me wide open. But … nobody ever has double-crossed me before. Nobody ever has had the grit to dare to do it.” His eyes flared at the boy. “You’re tough stuff. You’re clean hickory. But even you, I don’t think, would have the nerve. And if I got you on my side, as soon as the freeze comes, I’m gonna crumple up the colonel and his gents like sand. And throw the sand into the wind, and to hell with it!”

  His big mouth writhed into a knot at one corner, like one who tastes something sour, and enjoys the sourness. “Suppose I chance you, son?”

  “Suppose you do.”

  “You’d have to chuck the black horse in the first place.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “You wouldn’t? And you’d expect to stay livin’ on the same place with Jimmy Montague?”

  “He’ll tell you that he doesn’t want to try the stallion anymore,” the Lamb said, and smiled evilly.

  They studied one another gravely, that old man and that young one.

  “You’d be good for cuttin’ teeth,” declared old Montague. “Tigers could cut their teeth on you, kid.” He laughed, enjoying the thought. Then he said, “We’ll wait and see.”

  They waited. The long minutes stole away, without a word said. Beyond the windows, the steady Chinook sighed, the flames wagged upon the hearth, and from a corner of the room, a tall hall clock ticktocked with ridiculous indifference and gravity. The brain of the Lamb, turning back the scene that he had just enacted, weighed and tested all the words that he had spoken. And he told himself that he had lied well, and that perhaps he had lied well enough.

  Then the voice of the old man said, “You reminded me of somebody. I don’t know. Relation or something.”

  He raised his head a little, and as he did so, the Lamb heard a footfall coming up the hallway. A key then turned noisily in the lock and the door was cast open. They had sight of Jimmy Montague, filling that doorway from side to side, and his head bowed a little, while he stared into the chamber. There was blood upon his face. A sleeve was ripped from his coat. He strode into the room with a limp, and all the time he stared with white face at the Lamb. His fury was so great that he could not speak, though his throat worked.

  “Well?” said the grandfather, leaning forward in his chair a little. “What’s happened? You look at the Lamb as though he’d done it? But it couldn’t’ve been more than his ghost, eh?”

  “His ghost … aye … still on the back of the horse,” said Jimmy, and he leaned his great shoulders against the mantel. His head strained back, with closed eyes. So he suffered, wrung with hatred and with pride.

  The grandfather began to nod. “There’s brains,” he declared. “That’s why we could use him, too. Brains have shot more men than guns. Brains have a longer range and shoot harder and straighter. That’s why we could use him.”

  “For dog feed!” Jimmy shouted. “That’s all. You old chump, are you changin’ your mind about him?” Then he said rapidly, quietly, “He’s stolen the horse from me. You understand that? He’s stolen the horse from me, and I think that no man’ll ever be able to sit the black again.”

  “A damn shame to waste that kind of a horse, then,” said Montague.

  “I’ll waste him!” cried Jimmy. “I’ll turn him into dog feed … and throw him out with this … in the morning!”

  He pointed to the Lamb, and the Lamb looked earnestly back at him and said not a word. He had a feeling that the old man would fight his battle better than his wits and guns could fight it.

  “Open your eyes and look at the Lamb,” said the old man. The grandson obeyed. “Does he remind you of anything?”

  “Aye … of poison … and the taste of brass …”

  “No other man, I mean.”

  “No. He’s by himself.”

  “That’s all, then,” said Montague. “You can leave me alone with him, now.”

  “And?”

  “And keep your hands off of the black. It belongs to the Lamb, and the Lamb rides for us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  By Monty Montague himself, this new recruit was ushered to a room. It was a small chamber in the second story, with deeply projecting eaves sheltering its window from the snow and the wind. Its smallness made it appear snug in spite of its barrenness. There were in it merely a wooden cot and a chair. As for washing, bathing, shaving, there was a room in the basement of the house that looked like a laundry, and there the Lamb for the first time met the rest of the household.

  They were as rough as bears. Razors were not often used in the establishment, for the good reason that there was little warm water available to work up a lather, and by the time that a stiff beard had been properly prepared for shaving, the soap was apt to be frozen to the skin in rigorous weather. The result was that almost all the men wore natural beards that, being of equal length all over, inclined to make their faces round and owlish. Only here and there, as in the case of Jimmy Montague, was found a man to whom the beard gave an air of nobility.

  They greeted the Lamb with a surly sort of respect, as though they knew that he was different from them, and that, nevertheless, he was a useful fellow to have about. The majority of these men were actual members of the clan, and the others, without exception, hoped to gain a place in the family by marriage, or perhaps by being formally included among the Montagues. This was done after a well-established precedent, the lucky claimant receiving for his share a certain number of cows to start his herd, together with a proportionate number of weanlings, and a bull. Upon these animals he was allowed to put his own mark, above the marks of the Montagues. All increase in his own herd was returned to him. He could sell, or he could let the animals run. The property was large enough to accommodate several such herds, but it was the ambition of Monty Montague, the controlling genius of the family, to crush Colonel Peter Loring and drive him from the range, not so much for the sake of appropriating the property of the colonel as to give greater room to the aspirations of the Montagues and their protégés. This family was a solid unit of a patriarchal mold.

  They retained a patriarchal simplicity in their manners, too. They ate at one long table, which was loaded down with food, to be sure, but the food was nearly all meat. Vegetables were reserved for invalids and children. Grown people were supposed to consume meat alone, and thrive on it, and the hard labor they performed enabled them to do this and keep fairly healthy. They all rode out early in the day. They worked until late. Each, being a part owner or aspiring to be one, was tireless and alert. It was a silent house, for each man was considering his own task; or,
returning from it, they were mute from the fatigue of a hard day’s work.

  They took their orders, when orders were necessary, from Monty, or from his son Jimmy. These orders were terse and to the point. There was never any necessity of threatening a man because of laziness or neglect. Instead of that, in some extreme case the old man himself would call the delinquent into his own room and there he would quietly mention the faults that had been observed, and point out that they must cease, or else there was no place for the man in the clan. That always was enough, with one exception, for there had been but a single case of expulsion in the whole history of the clan. As for the others, men who came remained forever, with the exception of a scattering that had been hired in times of great need and discharged immediately afterward.

  There were a score of children about the place. Old Monty interested himself in them a great deal. He saw to it that every boy and girl had a pony to ride as soon as it was able to straddle a bare back. In summer he saw to it that the youngsters scattered across the range and lived as much like wild Indians as they chose. In the winter months, such as this season, he insisted that they should have instruction, and for that purpose a big room was selected, and there Louise Patten held her school.

  Her pupils ranged from six to sixteen, though no boy was kept at books after he was fourteen. At that time he was declared a man, able to take his place as a scout or as a Montague warrior. The day he definitely left the school, he was considered to have ended his novitiate.

  Such a system of Arcadian simplicity caused the household and the clan to have much strength, and also many weaknesses. But the lack of law, and of submission to the law of the land, was replaced by the rules of the clan itself, and perfect obedience to them. These rules advanced the pleasant thought that nothing really was of importance except the welfare of the community. A theft or a crime on the outside, so long as it redounded to the strength or in some manner to the credit of the tribe, was admirable rather than reprehensible.

  The Lamb, a careful observer of all things, took note of his surroundings for several days.

  During the time, hardly more than a monosyllable was spoken to him by the other people in the house who were at the age of discretion. Only some of the boys, who knew that he was a famous fighter, could not overcome their intense curiosity and admiration. They, when occasion served and no older person was observing, would slip up beside him and shyly enter into conversation, trying to draw out the hero and learn, as it were, some of the secrets of Achilles’ might. They found the Lamb perfectly amiable. It was to his advantage to create as much good feeling as possible. Perhaps from one of these children he would learn enough to make his errand profitable to Colonel Loring.

  But he felt that his progress was very slow. It never was suggested that he should join the other men in their work. It was accepted that he was a drone, valuable in his case for his sting in battle, but that the sooner the battle and the end of his usefulness, the better. Then they would throw him out.

  The longer he lived here not only did he come to doubt his own usefulness, but also he began to wonder more and more what there might be in this naked life that attracted men to live it. He determined that he would have to talk with Louise Patten, when he could. He saw her from time to time, her pale face silent at the long table, or passing from one room to another, always deftly avoiding his eye.

  He could guess that she despised him because he had become an adherent or paid retainer of the Montagues, but he was willing to endure her scorn, face to face, if he could gain her information. She herself had never a companion except some of the older girls she was teaching. The young men, married or unmarried, never so much as glanced at her. All her friendship was given to a sleek, white bull terrier that followed her day and night. It was at her heels on the day when he accosted her in the grounds of the house.

  He had made it a point, from his first coming, to stroll about the house and the land constantly so as to give himself a clear picture of every inch of the establishment since that might be the sort of knowledge that would be the most useful. After all, he was in the fortress of the enemy. Luckily the arrangement was not so complicated that he had to put it down in drawing. He could trust his memory, but he wanted that memory to be accurate for use by day or night.

  The house had been built on a naturally impregnable post. On three sides, there was a sharp descent of rock that never could be scaled without ropes or ladders. No matter how often the Lamb eyed the sheer walls, he could not find a path by which even a dog could climb or descend. On the fourth side, the neck of the promontory was cut by the ravine of the creek. Here the rock walls were not much more than fifty or sixty feet in height, but the creek itself was a formidable barrier. The water was neither very shallow nor very deep, but it came with the speed of volleyed arrows, rushing to white spray and foam upon the rocks. On the steep and narrow banks, here and there, was barely footing for a man, but no chance for him to run and leap. Therefore, the crossing of the creek was sure to be extremely precarious. It was the most natural precaution in the world that had caused Monty Montague to build the bridge, of the most simple type, strong and secure, but working on a great pivot so that it could be swung out or in, and locked in either position. Then the house was as secure as a ship at sea with a strong wind blowing.

  Even these precautions were not enough to suit the Montagues, since the open wars with Colonel Loring began. And every night one or two men were moving constantly about as guards. Sometimes half a dozen were put on watch, if danger seemed imminent.

  As for plans of attacking the Montagues, the Lamb could not find one. He would have to wait until they revealed their plans to him. For that he hoped, if once he could win their trust.

  He was rounding a thicket of brush, the ice-rimmed branches glistening in the sunless air, when he saw Louise Patten come briskly out from the trees, with the white terrier streaking before her, here and there. At the sight of the Lamb, the dog paused, and came to a challenging position before him. The Lamb took off his hat to the girl, but she gave him the slightest of nods and passed by, her eyes fixed straight before her.

  The Lamb, nothing daunted, fell in at her side.

  “There’s a good view of Old Mount Chandler beyond the firs, there,” he suggested cheerfully. “The whole south side is plastered with white this morning.”

  She did not answer. They passed through the firs, and here he paused and stretched out his arm so that he blocked the narrow path as he pointed.

  “You see?” he said.

  The bull terrier growled softly, and looked up to his mistress for directions. She in turn regarded the Lamb with the calmest of eyes.

  “I want to go on,” she said.

  “Even the dog can understand that,” admitted the Lamb. “But I want to talk to you.” She was silent, eyeing him without dread. “There’s reasons why you and me should open up and talk freely,” suggested the Lamb.

  “I don’t see them,” she said. As he started to explain, she interrupted, “I don’t want to talk to you. I want to go on.”

  “Sure you do,” the Lamb said calmly. “But I want you to stay here. I’m busting with curiosity about you.”

  “I’m not curious about you,” she declared.

  He nodded. “Sure,” he said. “I’m Benedict Arnold, or something like that, except that I ain’t been made a general, yet. Maybe that’ll come later. But I want to talk about you, not myself.”

  She hesitated. Then she nodded. “I’ve been rude enough,” she said. “And I’m sorry for it. What can I tell you?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Lamb sighed with relief.

  “This is a good deal easier than I thought it would be,” he admitted. “When I saw you going by with a frosty eye, I thought I’d be up against trouble, talking to you. But here you are, pretty good-natured. I’ve noticed that before,” breezed the Lamb. “When a person has do
ne a good turn for another, it’s hard for him to get hard-hearted. Him that does the favor is the one that’s bound by doing it, the same as you seem to be now.”

  “What favor have I done for you?” she asked.

  “Only showing me the way out, to the saving of my neck.”

  She nodded. “I suppose you can call that a favor,” she said.

  “Even a thing like me can’t afford to chuck himself away, ma’am,” he said.

  At this, a slight flush appeared in her cheek. “Are you proud of leaving your friends?” she asked.

  “What friends? Loring’s lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “What friends were they of mine? They hired me for pretty good pay. Along comes some other folks and offer me a raise. What’s wrong with taking it?”

  “Is that the way you reason?” she asked, and her eyes wandered upon his face, like one who reads a strange book.

  “I’m on the make,” declared the Lamb. “I need cash and I intend to get it.”

  “You came here to find Jimmy and kill him,” she said. “Now you’re here to take his orders.”

  “Between the evening I came to find him and tonight, there’s the difference between a dead mare and a living horse. And there’s four thousand dollars to boot thrown in.”

  “Did you come here for Jimmy because he’d killed your horse?”

  “I wanted trouble,” he admitted. “But I suppose that we’ve talked enough about me. Everybody knows that I’m a hired man. But why are you here?”

  “For board and lodging,” she said. “And so many dollars a month. I like my work, too.”

  “Teaching?”

  “Teaching, yes.”

  “You can’t teach ’em nothing but reading and writing,” he said. “And what’s that worth?”

  Here she looked up at him suddenly with a brightness in all her face. “I think I know what you mean,” she said.