by Max Brand
This speech he delivered in a murmuring voice, for he was thinking aloud, rather than addressing his companion, but when Lefty heard the gist of the words, he was forced to shake his head.
“I dunno who it could be—not nobody!” he said. “You been imaginin’ all of this here direction and deep thinkin’!”
“Is rats hard to smell in an old house?” asked Destry.
“I reckon not!”
“I’ve smelled a rat, and a big one!” said Destry. “Now it’s dark enough for us to get down the hill!”
They went down to the rear of the village, and there they moved cautiously, with Destry directing the way, until they came in behind the house of the sheriff.
They could look readily through the lighted kitchen window, and see fat Mrs. Slater washing supper dishes; rounding to the side, they observed Ding Slater himself sitting on the screen porch with his feet in carpet slippers, a newspaper spread out in his hands, and a pipe between his teeth.
“If the crooks hate him, why don’t they come and murder him on a night like this?” suggested Destry.
“Because birds don’t come nigh to snakes if they can help it,” replied Lefty readily. “Harry—whatever I done—the minute you walk me onto that veranda, I’m in hell! I voted with the rest of ’em on that jury—”
“Are you gunna beg like a cur in the wind up?” he asked scornfully.
“No,” said the other. “I’m damned if I will. Shall I walk first?”
“Yeah. Go in first.”
Destry marched Lefty up the front steps in this fashion, and through the screened door until he was confronting the sheriff. Ding Slater folded the paper in his lap.
“Hello,” said the sheriff. “You need a doctor, and not Ding Slater, Lefty. Who’s that with you?”
“Me,” said Destry.
At his voice, the sheriff leaped to his feet like a boy.
“ It ain’t Lefty that raked out the till for Fitzgerald!” he exclaimed. “Lefty ain’t cut small enough to do that sort of a job!”
Destry threw a wallet on the table beside the sheriff’s chair.
“He says the coin is in this. I dunno. I leave it to you to look for it. But here he is. Ding, you knew before I started out that he’d done that job!”
“Confound, you, Harry. How should I know?”
“You sent me out to keep me from drillin’ him, which is what’s comin’ to him. Ding, you did that on purpose.”
“If I’d knowed who done the job, would I of asked help from any man?” exclaimed the sheriff. “Harry, they’s times when you talk like a young fool. But——”
“Take this,” said Destry. “I’ve done enough dirty work for you. I’ve mopped up your floor once, and that’s enough. It’ll take me years to wear the stain off of my hands!”
He flung the badge of deputyship on the table and turned on his heel.
“But Harry—Harry!” called the sheriff.
Destry was already gone.
He passed back to the place where he had left the mare tethered and, taking her by the reins, led her slowly past the fence of the rear yards of Wham, until he came to the place of Chester Bent.
Once more he left the mare at a distance, and approaching the house with caution, he slipped around the side of it and came to the lighted front window. He caught the sill, and, drawing himself up, saw Bent himself inside his library, reading, or seeming to read; but every now and then the glance of Bent rose from the book and was fixed in solemn reflection upon the wall.
The front door was not far away, but Destry had several reasons, one better than another, for not going around to it. Instead, he swung himself up on his hands, sat on the sill, and turned into the room. A quick side step removed him from the lighted square of the window and he stood against the wall rolling a cigarette.
All of this had been accomplished so softly that Bent had not lifted his eyes from the big book which was unfolded in his lap, and Destry waited before scratching his match, until he had made sure that his friend was not actually reading, but was immersed in his own thoughts. For though he fingered the edge of the page for some time, he never raised and turned it. At last, Destry struck the match. The explosion of the head sounded wonderfully loud in the room; it sent a shock through Bent like the explosion of a revolver.
But he did not leap up to his feet. Instead, instantly mastering himself, he leaned forward a little in his chair and turned his head toward the intruder.
Then: “Harry!” he said, and laughed with relief.
Destry went to the big library table and sat on the edge of it, swinging one slender foot while he eyed his companion.
“Why the window, Harry?” asked the other.
“A man ain’t like a hoss,” said Destry. “He gets mighty tired of walkin’ through the same gate into the same pasture. So I come in tonight over the bars.”
“Into the same old pasture, though. Eh, boy?”
“No,” said Destry. “I’ve found somethin’ new to think about. I’ve found it since I came in here!”
“What is it?”
“A thing I better not talk to you about,” said Harry.
The other looked down at the floor, then tapped his fingers lightly on the face of his book. As he looked up once more, Destry said: “Them wrinkles in the back of your neck, and that sleekness all over you, Chet, is it fat or muscle?”
“Muscle? What do I do to get muscle?” asked Bent. “I’m no athlete, Harry. You know that.”
“Some men are born strong and stay strong,” said Destry. “But that ain’t what I was thinkin’ about.”
“What was it, Harry?”
“I was rememberin’ back to a time when a strange boy come to school. He was not very big, but he looked thick and strong and fast. I was scared of him from the first glance. And for a month I dodged him till one day as I went home after school I came up sudden behind him and seen his eyes open big as I went by. By that, I knew he was as scared of me as I was of him; and so we fought it out right pronto!”
“And you won, eh?”
“I disremember, but——”
“Am I afraid of you, Harry?”
The other thought, then shook his head.
“Of the whole bunch,” said Destry slowly, “I reckon that you’re the only man that ain’t afraid of anything above the ground or under it!”
Chapter Twenty-four
It seemed that this compliment was not altogether pleasing to Bent, for he waved it hurriedly aside and said: “I’m pretty soft. I always was!”
“Some of the soft colts make the hard hosses,” observed Destry. “You’ve growed up, old timer. But I was thinkin’ as I stood agin the wall that you ain’t everything that I thought you was.”
“Maybe not, Harry. You’ve had pretty high ideas about me.”
“Why the book, when you don’t read it?” asked Destry.
At this, Bent took his eyes definitely from his own thoughts and stared fixedly at Destry. Then he pointed to the window shade behind his head.
“Fake?” said Destry, his lips compressing after he spoke.
“Fake,” said Bent frankly.
“I’m mighty sorry to hear it.”
“I knew you would be. But there’s the truth. I can’t lie to you, Harry.”
The latter sighed.
“To make ’em think that you’re in here studyin’?”
“Mostly that. I’m ambitious. I want the respect of other people. The fact is, Harry, that when I’ve finished a day at my office, I’m so fagged that I can’t use my head for much else. I like to be alone and think things over. That’s the way of it! Well, I got into the habit of sitting here; then I heard people talking about my late hours and all that sort of thing, so I rigged up the sham, and there you are!”
Destry nodded.
“I can follow that,” he said. “But I’d rather——”
He paused.
“You’d rather that I’d rob a bank than do this?”
“Pre
tty near, I think!”
“You’re right,” answered the other. “Any crime’s better if it takes courage to do it! You’ll never think much of me after this, Harry!”
“I’ll like you better, because you told me the straight of it. I suppose I’ll like you better for this than if you was to lay down your life for me!”
He went suddenly to Bent and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Sometimes,” he said gravely, “I pretty nigh believe in a God. Things are so balanced! My friends turned out crooks and traitors to me; the woman I loved, she turned me down the first chance; but I’ve got one friend that balances everything. You, Chet.”
He stopped abruptly and snapped his fingers.
“I’m going up to bed. It’s my last night here, I reckon.”
“Why the last night? Why d’you say that, old timer?”
“I can feel in my bones that they’re close to me. Six of ’em are left.”
“I thought it was seven?”
“I brought in Lefty, this evenin’. That’s where I been, on his trail. Old Ding Slater put me on the job, and I had to bring him back and turn him over.”
“Tell me about it! Lefty gone? He’s worth two, to have out of the way!”
“I don’t wanta talk. You’ll hear people spin the yarn tomorrow. Good night, Chet.”
“Good night, old man. Only—I should think that you’d feel safe now! In my own house!”
“Of course you’d think that. But you ain’t got eyes for every door—or every window!”
He smiled and pointed at the one through which he had entered. Then he left the room.
The instant he was in the comparative dimness of the hallway, his manner changed to that of the hunted animal. Swiftly and lightly he walked, and paused now and again to listen, hearing the stir of voices at the rear of the house, and then the whir of the big clock which stood at the landing, followed by the single chime for the half hour.
Then he went up the stairs, treading close to the wall where the boards were less apt to creak under his weight. So he went up to the attic floor where his room was, but he did not turn in at the door. Instead, he paused there for a moment and listened intently.
There was not a sound from the interior.
Yet still he did not enter, but, turning the knob of the door by infinitesimally small degrees, he pushed it a fraction of an inch past the catch, then allowed the knob to turn back. He drew back, and a moment later a draft caused the freed door to sway open a few inches.
There was no movement within the bedroom. Yet still he lingered, until the current of air had pushed the door wide. Drawn far back into a corner of the corridor, he still waited with an inhuman patience. The dark was thick, yet he could make out the glimmering panel of the door’s frame.
Finally, out of this issued a shadow, and another, and two more behind. They stood there for a moment, and then slipped down the hall. Close to Destry, the leader paused and held out his arms to stop the others.
“We’re chucking a chance in a lifetime!” said he.
“I’ve had enough,” replied another. “I can’t stand it. When the damn door opens itself—that’s too ghostly for me!”
“It was only the wind, you fool!”
“I don’t care what it was. I’ve got enough. I’m going to leave. The rest of you do what you want!”
“Bud, will you stay on with me?”
“Where?”
“Back in that room, of course! He’s bound to come there. He seen the sheriff, and after that, he’ll come here. Likely talkin’ with Bent downstairs, right now!”
“I’ll tell you,” answered Bud, “I wouldn’t mind waitin’, but not in that room, after the ghost has got into it!”
“Ghost, you jackass!”
“You’re tellin’ me that the wind opened the door. Sure it did. And it blew the ghost in on us!”
“Bud, I don’t believe you mean what you say. I won’t believe that! Ghost talk out of you!”
“A wind,” said Bud, “that’s able to turn the knob of a door, can blow in a ghost, too!”
“You fool, of course the latch wasn’t caught!”
“Anyway, I’ve had enough.”
They went down the stairs. Noiselessly as Destry had ascended, so noiselessly did the four go down, and Destry gripped the naked revolver which he held, tempted to fire on them from behind. In spite of the darkness, he could not have missed them!
However, he let them go, still kneeling on the hall carpet and listening.
He thought he heard the opening of a window, but even this was managed so dexterously that he could not be sure. It was only after several moments that he was sure that the house no longer held that danger for him, and he started down to tell Chester Bent about what he had seen and heard.
However, after a moment of reflection he changed his mind. There was nothing that Bent could do except feel alarm and disgust at his inability to protect a guest. The men were gone; Bent could not overtake them in the dark; and since one attempt had been planned for this night, it was not likely that there would be another before morning.
So Destry went into the bedroom, threw himself wearily on the bed, and, without even taking off his clothes or locking the door, went instantly to sleep.
When he wakened, it was not yet dawn. He rose quickly, washed his face and hands, and, sitting down by lamplight at the table, he wrote hastily:
Dear Chet,
This is to say good-by for a time. I’m going to leave Wham, and even leave you.
I’m traveling light, and leave a good deal of stuff behind me. You might let it stay in this room. It will make other folks, probably, think that I’m coming back here. And the more I can confuse the others, the luckier it will be for me.
They’re hot after me, Chet. There were four men waiting for me in my room, last night when I came upstairs. I managed to get them out without trouble, but the next time won’t be so easy.
So long, old fellow. You certainly been the top of the world to me.
I’m not thanking you for what you’ve done. But I’ll tell you that you’re the man who makes life worth while for me.
HARRY.
This message he thrust under Bent’s door, and hurried away into the dark of the morning.
Chapter Twenty-five
The emotions of Chester Bent were not at all what Destry would have imagined. For when the former rose in the morning and found the note which had been pushed under the edge of his door, his face puckered savagely, and one hand balled into a fist.
He dressed hurriedly and went to the house of James Clifton. It was a little shack that stood almost on the very street, built by the father, and now occupied by his talented son, who was a serious investigator of the mines and therefore, according to the public, a “lucky” investor.
Chester Bent walked swiftly enough to feel his leg muscles stretching, and every step he took restored his confidence, though it did not diminish his irritation. Early as it was, there were already people on the street, and, of the dozen he passed, he knew the face and name of every one. Moreover, each of them had a special smile, a special wave of the hand for him; each looked as though he gladly would pause for conversation. But Bent went quickly by. He knew his own power in that town, however, from the looks he had seen in the faces of the pedestrians, and he was smiling to himself when he came to Clifton’s house.
He found the proprietor in his small kitchen, with the smoke from frying ham ascending into his face. Jimmy Clifton turned a face as yellow as a Chinaman’s toward his guest. He was like a Chinaman in other ways, for he had a froglike face, with a little awkward body beneath it. Some said that Jimmy Clifton had been through the fire when he was an infant, thereby accounting for the quality and color of his skin, which looked like loosely stretched parchment over the bones.
In spite of his peculiarities, however, Clifton was not really an ugly man so much as a strange one. He had a cordial manner which made him many friends, and he showed it now
as he advanced to meet Bent and shook him warmly by the hand, hoping that he would join him at a breakfast which was ample for two.
But Bent refused. His irritation increased and his good humor lessened as he accompanied his host into the next room, which served for dining room, guest room, and living room in the shack. There they sat down, and, as Clifton began to eat, Bent observed:
“Suppose that your father had been tangled up in a row like this? How long would he have hesitated? He would have stayed there in Destry’s room until morning. For that matter, he would have stayed there alone, too, and waited until he was in bed!”
He pointed, as if for verification to a long string of grizzly claws which hung across the wall from one side to the other. Old Clifton had killed the animals whose claws were represented there, and Indianlike he had saved the mementoes. There was a tale that he actually had engaged one of the great brutes in a cave and had killed it with a knife thrust. Without imputations upon the courage of little Jimmy Clifton, it was plain that he was a lame descendant of such a hero.
That young man now regarded the sinister decoration on the wall as he tackled his breakfast. The greatest peculiarity of Jimmy Clifton was that he was never perturbed, by words or deeds.
Then he said in answer: “I don’t know. The old man was a pretty tough fellow, but I don’t know about him staying alone in the same room with Destry. I’ll tell you this, though. I tried to get the rest of ’em to stay with me!”
“Bah!” exploded Chester Bent. “Tell me the truth, Jimmy! You were all of you in a blue funk!”
“I was scared, sure,” said Clifton readily, “but not in a funk. I would have seen it through, but not alone. I wasn’t up to that. You don’t know what happened. The infernal latch of the door hadn’t caught, and all at once a draft must have hit it, though there was no whistle of wind around the house. But suddenly the door sagged; then it opened, and a whisper of air fanned through the room. A pretty ghostly business!”