Destry Rides Again

by Max Brand

  He kept step with the two he followed, so that the impact of their heavy heels might drown any sound made by his naked feet, and he could congratulate himself that they suspected nothing as they went in the back way to the house of Clifton.

  He had gone far enough in his little scouting expedition, but still he was not content. Success, even in this small way, had mounted to his head, and he was keen as a hound to continue the trail, for he knew that in the pocket of Bent rested Destry’s knife, as yet unused!

  He determined to go on, but the dog, which had followed the master to the door of the house, bounding and whining with pleasure, now turned back, and made an additional danger. Boldness, he decided, was the better way. So he opened the gate boldly and walked straight up the rear path. His way was blocked instantly by the dog. He was a big yellow and black mongrel with a head like a mastiff’s, less squarely made than the model. He came at Willie with a rush, crouching low, but as the bare feet swung steadily forward, the monster slouched guiltily, suspiciously to the side—and the road was open to the spy!

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The bravado which had carried the boy past the dog endured until he had reached the kitchen door, with the cold nose of the animal sniffing at his fragile heels; even there it did not desert him, but, hearing voices inside, and seeing the darkness within, he wondered if he could not slip in farther and come closer to the words.

  He actually had drawn the door open when he remembered what he was doing—entering a trap quite ready to close on him and hold him for disastrous punishment of which he could not even dream. In that moment, it seemed to the boy that the roar of the river, strongly with melted snow water from the mountains, sang suddenly louder, and in a more personal note warned him away.

  He let the door close quickly, not enough to make it slam, but so that the rusted hinges groaned faintly. That sound made him turn to flee, but a sudden weakness unnerved him at the knees. He sank down by the wall of the house, panting. Before him came the dog, growling faintly deep in its throat, the hair lifting along the back of its neck; but a so much greater terror was in the heart of Willie that he did not regard this close danger.

  He waited through the eternity of a dozen heartbeats, but no swift step came toward him through the house.

  He was spared again!

  And, as the heart of a boy will do, now that of Willie leaped up from utter consternation to overbearing presumption. If there was anything worth hearing in that conversation between the knife bearer and the smaller man, he intended to hear it. The opportunity was not far away. Lamplight streamed through another window at the rear of the house, and Willie started up and went toward it.

  For the dog he had developed a quick contempt, the fruit of reaction from his greater fear, and he cuffed the brute in the ribs with his bare foot; the cur snapped, but at the empty air, and slunk away mastered.

  If anything could have raised the spirits of Willie higher, this was the final touch. He had been the cowering hare the instant before; he was the brave and cunning fox, now.

  Through the lighted window came the voices which he sought, but indistinctly at times, so that he could not follow the trend of the conversation; and that made Willie climb up on the base board that encircled the bottom of the cheap little house.

  Gripping the corner of the sill, where it jutted out on the side, he was in a difficult position, but one from which it was possible for him to hear every word and, if he dared, look in on the actors. He barely reached that place of vantage when he heard Bent saying in a voice which he hardly could recognize:

  “To cancel the notes, Jimmy, of course, but with a knife instead of a pen!”

  The voice ended, and there was a breath of silence that stabbed Willie to the heart, like the stroke of a knife. Irresistible instinct made him look, and he saw Clifton just arisen, still partly crouched, from the chair.

  He could not watch the face of the victim, but he could see Bent’s clearly, and the murder in it.

  All that wild action of the night of Warren’s death now seemed as nothing compared with the horror of the silence in which Bent looked down at the smaller man.

  Willie could not endure it. Choked and faint, he looked away, ready to step down, but fearing to move lest he should fall and the noise attract the attention of the monster in the room, three short steps from him.

  He looked away, therefore, trying to steady himself for flight and he saw the dark, dim rows of the greens in the vegetable garden, the vague outline of the dog not far away, standing remorsefully on guard, with less courage than suspicion. More than that, he heard again the distinct roar of the Cumber River as it hurried through its shallow gorge at Wham; and in some house nearby people were talking—women’s voices, rapid, beating one on top of the other, filled with exclamations and laughter that tumbled together like the gamboling of puppies.

  Even in that moment, the lip of Willie curled a little, and into his troubled brain flowed other sounds, and above all, that of a mandolin far off. He could hear only the jangle of the strings that kept the tune, and the pulse of a soft singing rather than the actual timbre.

  So that moment was filled for the boy, when he heard Clifton saying:

  “It’s hard to look at you, Chet, you’re acting the part so well. I’d almost think, to hear you, that you would murder me!”

  And he laughed. So rich and so real was his laughter that the boy looked back with a sudden great hope. It was, after all, only a practical jest!

  But no! The instant he saw the face of Bent he knew, as he had known before, that murder was in the air!

  And Clifton knew it, also. His laughter died away with a break. One hand was behind him, hard gripped, and again the dreadful silence went on, heartbeat by heartbeat.

  Then Bent said through his teeth, “You’re not a fool, Jimmy. You know that if I let Destry go to prison in my place a thing such as wiping you off the ledger with blood won’t stop me for a moment!”

  “You know that you’ll infallibly hang!” said Clifton, in a shaken tone.

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Bent. “Don’t comfort yourself with that, Jimmy! Destry is my professional buffer state. The knife that I stab you with will be found in your body, and there is a clever ‘D’ cut into the handle of it. I suppose that a hundred people will be able to identify that knife as Destry’s. He’s been proud of his work with it, you know. He can hit things at twenty paces—sink the knife half the length of its blade into green wood, and that sort of thing. No, no, Jimmy! This will be laid on Destry’s shoulders!”

  “Then Destry will have you by the throat for it!”

  “Have me? He’ll never suspect! Destry’s one of those clever, cunning people who prefer to keep a blind side for their friends. He has a blind side for me. He knows a dozen of my faults, has seen them, listed them, acknowledged them, but still he can’t add up the total and see what I am. Destry’s not a fool; he’s only a fool about his friend, Chester Bent. The point will be that the cunning assassin of poor Jimmy Clifton stole the knife from Destry’s room in my house in order to throw the blame on him! You see? But the rest of the world will have a fine reason for hanging Destry by the neck!”

  He, in his turn, laughed a little, and did not finish his mirth in a hurry. Rather he seemed to be tasting and retasting it, and he was still laughing in that almost silent way when Clifton spoke again. His courage was going; with horrible clarity. Willie knew that, and saw a brave man turning into a dog before his eyes.

  “D’you hear me—will you hear me, Chet?” he gasped.

  “Of course. I want to hear you. I want to see you, too! I want to see you whine, you fool!”

  “Chet,” said the other, “I’ve never had anything against you, or you against me!”

  “Except the notes, my boy!”

  “They’re yours! Look! Take and tear ’em up, and tear up your check, besides!”

  “Are you a total ass, Jimmy? Tear the things up, but leave in Wham a man who knows all about
me—and my reserve fund?”

  “I’ll forget it, Chet. Good God, man, I’ll forget all about it. I tell you what—I’m going to leave Wham. You know that. I’ll swear never to come back—”

  “You don’t have to. A letter to the sheriff would be enough.”

  “Man, I’ll give you my sacred word of honor. The thing’s ended with me. I’ll say no more. It’s finished. Every word you’ve spoken, and every act I’ve seen—which isn’t much—I’ll tear them out of the book of my brain and burn the leaves!”

  Bent, listening, smiled with a peculiar gratification, as though the terror of the other were feeding him with a more than physical food.

  This smile was accepted by Clifton, rightly as a refusal, and suddently he slumped to his knees upon the floor.

  Bent stepped back, in loathing, and yet in animal-like pleasure at this horror, and Clifton followed on his knees, reaching out his thick, yellow, trembling hands. His head was thrown back. His voice choked in his throat.

  “Chet, you and me—for God’s sake!—always friends—school together—”

  A scream came up in the throat of Willie and stuck there like a bone.

  “Stand up, and face it like a man!” commanded Bent.

  “Chet, Chet, I’ve always respected you, liked you, loved you, d’you hear? Old friends! Chet, I’m young, I’m gunna get married—”

  “You lie! Get up, or I’ll lift you up by the hair of the head, you cur!”

  “I swear it’s true. Gunna marry Jenny Cleaver. She’s to meet me in Denver—young, Chet—life before me—friends——”

  Then the monster moved. He did not seem to hurry. It was like the action of the wasp in stinging the spider already paralyzed with horror. So Bent leaned and actually grasped Clifton by the hair of the head and jerked the head far back.

  Willie saw the hands of the man stiffen as they clutched at the air, saw his mouth drawn open, and yet he did not scream for help.

  Then Bent struck.

  Straight through the base of the throat he drove the long knife, and left it sticking in the wound, then stepped back with blood running down his right hand.

  Clifton fell on the floor, writhed his legs together, then turned on his back and lay motionless. He was dead! Already the boy had seen a death, but it had seemed to him then the most magnificent thing he ever had witnessed—a strong man rushing into battle against equal odds, and beaten, broken with bullets, snuffed out like a light. It had left glory for the victor, but this was a thing that words could not be used upon!

  His long held breath now failed him, and he gasped. It was only a faint sound, but it was enough.

  He saw the eyes of Bent roll up and fix steadily upon him, and he knew that the shadows had not screened him. That keen glance had gone out with the lamplight into the dark beyond the window and clearly discerned the face of the witness!

  Chapter Thirty

  The spell that held Willie Thornton endured until Bent made a move, and then he dropped like a plummet from the windowsill and began to run.

  He wanted his best speed to get to the rear gate of the garden and so dodge right or left into the obscurity of the safe night, but his knees were numb, and his breath was gone. He stumbled straightway into a wire erected to support tomato vines and tumbled head over heels. As he came to his feet again, he saw Chester Bent flinging himself through the window with the agility of an athlete, and straightway he knew that the slowness which he had hoped for in that sleek appearing man would never appear.

  He reached the gate, snatched off the wire hoop, and whipped through, yet delaying a fraction of a second to jam the loop back in place. Then he headed like the wind straight down the path toward the shrubbery, with the roaring of the river flinging up louder and louder from the very ground on which he trod, as it seemed.

  He turned his head and glanced over his shoulder in time to see Chester Bent take the gate in his stride, like a hurdler, with the shadowy form of the dog flying over after him.

  Dog and man together against him, Willie felt very much smaller than ever before; but in a sense he was less frightened than he had been when he stood at the window and looked in on the murder.

  That had been too horrible for the imagination, but his present case was perfectly clear and exact. If Bent caught him, youth would make no difference. He would be killed!

  Once he tipped up his face to scream for help— the thing which he had wondered that poor Clifton did not do—but he knew that as he cried out, his feet would be trailing and stumbling, and he dared not slow up, he dared not lose one breath of wind!

  So he went on vigorously, probing at the dark of the winding pathway, making his legs work with all the muscle they had gained from trudging over mountain trails. A sharp stone cut his foot, but it only made his tread the lighter. He fairly flew, leaning aslant at the curves, but he knew that Bent was gaining rapidly!

  The river roared nearer before his face, and suddenly he wondered that he could have been such a fool as to run in this direction! For the river was the very place which Bent would have chosen. Its rapid waters would be certain to cover a dead body quickly! Whereas if he had run toward the street, a single shout would have brought people around him!

  The sense of his failure and folly made the boy weak. And then the mongrel ran up beside him, snapping and snarling, but not yet with quite the courage to bite; behind came the greater shadow of the man. His footfall sounded like a heavy pulse in the brain of Willie; and the boy could hear his gasping breath.

  He swerved from under the very hand of Bent into the brush which rattled and cracked deafening him. A cat’s claw gripped him and spun him around as he lurched away from it, but he darted on, and a moment later, with his lungs bursting and his eyes thrusting from their sockets, he threw himself flat on the ground beneath a bush and waited.

  Desperately he strove to control the noise of his breathing; then told himself that the louder voice of the river probably would cover such a small thing as his breathing. So he lay trembling with exertion, hopeful that his hiding place would be overlooked, and at any rate thankful for this moment of rest.

  He could hear Bent moving through the bush, cursing the thorns; then he saw the shadow of the man against the stars, moving past him.

  He was safe!

  Then a growl came at his very ear! It was the mongrel, which had followed the trail with a sense truer than the eyes in this dark of the night. Still the dog remembered the heel which had thumped his ribs, and though he snapped it was only at the air; then he backed up and began to bay the game!

  There was no sense in waiting. Willie lurched to his feet, gathering up a broken section of a branch that lay on the ground beside him. With this he struck true and hard between the eyes of the brute. It yowled with pain and fear and fled, but yonder came the silhouette of Bent, rushing straight at his quarry.

  There seemed no place to flee, now. The brush had proved a useless screen, and the danger was impending over him. But he sprinted desperately, with renewed wind, straight for the noise of the creek. He could not run as fast as his pursuer, but he had the advantage of being able to dodge more swiftly among the reaching branches of the shrubs.

  The trees along the river bank gave him a hope, but when he reached them the hand of Bent was again stretched for him. He dodged, pushing his hands against a tree trunk, and barely escaped into the open.

  There that hand gripped the shoulder of his coat!

  He was lost, then. But where another boy would have surrendered, Willie Thornton still fought like a cornered rat against fate. The second strong hand of the man gripped him. He whirled, and the loose, over-size coat gave from his shoulders and left him suddenly free!

  Bent, lurching back, sprang forward again with wonderful adroitness. There was no chance for the boy to dodge and run again. There was only one verge of the creek bank and the voice of the rushing Cumber beneath.

  He did not hesitate. Even a river in flood was preferable to death by the hands of th
e monster! So he ran straight forward and leaped out into air.

  He saw beneath him the glistening face of the water, streaked white by its speed against the rocks— white like a wolfs teeth, he thought, as he leaped into the thin hands of the wind. Then down he went as a rock goes. He smote the water with stunning force, but the cold of it kept his senses alert.

  He knew that he was being whirled around and around as he was carried down the stream, and he gripped at the first object that he saw. It looked a soft shadow; it proved to be a sleek rock that sprang up from a root in the bed of the stream.

  His grip held, though the current drew him out powerfully, like a banner flapping in a strong wind. He lay on his back, only his nose and lips above the surface, and, looking at the bank, he saw Chester Bent moving along the edge of the water.

  Opposite the point where Willie lay shivering with the penetrating cold of the melted snow, Bent paused for a long moment He crouched upon his heels, the better to study the surface of the stream.

  Then the lofty shadow stepped out upon a rock straight toward the place where Willie lay!

  He was lost, he told himself, and prepared to loose his hold and try to swim down the stream to safety, well assured that if he did so one of the sharp teeth in that wolf’s mouth would spear him to the life.

  But Bent remained only an instant on that rock, then he stepped back to the shore. The old coat he tossed into the stream, and climbed back to the upper edge of the bank. There he loitered an instant and faded away into the trees.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Five men had gathered, by this time, in the house of Jimmy Clifton, and Henry Cleeves took charge of the assembly. He came first, and had called for little Clifton, their host, who did not appear; then he had glanced into the bedroom and seen the lighted lamp, the bed with no sleeper on it, the chair in front of the desk quite empty.