by Max Brand
“I wanted to see you hang,” admitted Bent. “I always wanted to see that, from the time when you bested me, when we were boys. Besides, I owed Clifton money, and that was after all the cheapest way of paying him off!”
“Say, I hadn’t thought of that! You owed him money? Well, you’re a business man, old timer!”
“You stand on top just now, and you gloat a little,” said Bent coldly. “But I’ll win the game. There are other towns than Wham, other names than that of Bent, other girls than Charlie Dangerfield—though I admit that I’ve never seen ’em. But better to be a Bent on the wing than a Destry under the ground! Are you ready?”
“You’re gettin’ tolerable honest, Chet,” said the other. “I been wonderin’ when you’d try a crooked gun play on me!”
“I don’t need to,” said the other unexpectedly. “I got you inside the palm of my hand, and I’m gunna keep you there!”
“I reckon that you’re in good practice, Chet.”
“D’you think that I didn’t start preparing for the day you’d get out of prison the day you went into it? Little things are fairly sure to float up to the surface, in time, and there was never a minute when I didn’t half expect that I’d have to face you with a gun. The six years that you’ve missed, I’ve been working.”
A dog yapped shrill and loud across the street; it was silent. And Bent stood at the edge of the table, resting his finger tips lightly upon it.
The very appearance of sleekness seemed to have left him, and the man was hard with muscle as his brain was hard with resolution.
“Knife, or hand, or gun, Destry!” said he. “I’m ready for any one of the three. Which will you take?”
And suddenly fear leaped into the mind of Destry. He who so long had carried the frost of terror to others, now felt it himself. It was not the fear of death, but that much greater dread of being conquered. That which supports the champion is the knowledge that he never has been beaten. Because of pride, he is a superman, until he faces in the ring an equal confidence and feels that stunning impact of the first heavy blow. So it was with Destry. Shaken, chilled, he stared at Bent and saw a faint, cruel smile on the lips of the other. He felt that he could recognize that smile. How often had it appeared on his own lips when he faced lesser men?
“When the dog barks again——” said Bent.
And they waited. There was no attempt on the part of Bent to take an advantage. His finger tips still rested lightly on the edge of the table, his smile persisted, and the cold fire welled and gleamed in his eyes.
Then, shrill and distant as the note of a muted violin, the dog barked again. At one instant the right hands leaped, the guns flashed, and a wrenching impact tore the Colt from the fingers of Destry, flung it back against his body, and toppled him from his feet.
He saw, as he fell, the weapon flashing up to cover him and send home a fatal shot; and he knew that he had met his match at last and had been beaten, fairly and squarely.
All of that rushed through his brain, but as he struck the floor he heard a rapid fire opened from the window. The sheriff, whom he had forgotten!
Straight at the head of Destry, Bent had fired, but the attack from the side sufficiently unsteadied his hand to make his bullet fly wide. It struck the floor and cast dust and splinters into the face of Destry.
Bent, stooping, scooped the crammed saddle bag that carried the cash relics of his fortune from the chair, and ran for the doorway.
He dodged, like a teal in flight, and then the darkness of the hallway received him, while Destry crawled slowly to his knees, to his feet. He could not realize, for a moment, the thing that had happened to him, but stood balancing like a drunkard, uneasy, depressed, fumbling with his mind until the truth drove home.
Beaten, saved only by a masked attack from the side that had routed Bent, he was no longer the man that he had been! He, the conqueror, had been met and conquered! He groaned and struck his fists into his face. Then he sprang for the door.
The world which he knew was now reduced to a great blank in which there lived a single face and a single name—that of Chester Bent. And until they met again and fought to a grim finish, he could not hold up his head and call his soul his own.
Fiercely he ran into the hall, tore open the front door, and crashed against the sheriff, who was lunging in.
“Hey—Harry—are you hurt? Did I hit him?”
“Get out of my way!” gasped Destry.
He hurled Ding Slater roughly from him and leaped down the steps to the gravel of the front path.
When he reached the gate, the violence of his hand upon it wrenched it off the hinges. He left it clattering upon the path before him and turned swiftly down the outside of the hedge toward the horses.
Fiddle, as though she understood, threw up her head and whinnied softly. He whipped the reins up, leaped into the saddle, and started the good mare forward on the run.
From the rear of the house, he guessed, the fugitive conqueror would be riding, by this time, cutting back through the woods and over the rolling highlands beyond.
And so through those woods he drove Fiddle. The trees flicked back on either side. He saw the naked hills, the stars, and against them the shadowy outline of a horseman riding fast before him.
Chapter Forty-two
Much had been taken from Fiddle that day, but she had rested since the strain and now she was willing to run on, straight and swift. And every bound she made lifted the heart of Destry. He felt a cold, hard certainty that unless he overtook his conqueror on this night and fought out the battle with him again, he would never again be the Harry Destry whom other men had learned to fear.
Not that he cared to triumph over them, as he had done before. For now that he had dipped into the valley of humiliation, his heart was softened, and with every pulse of the mare’s gallop he swore inwardly that this night would see the last bullet fired from his Colt, whether he won or lost.
It must be a short race, he knew, for Fiddle could not endure another heart-racking effort in this day, but he trusted to her first fierce burst of speed to overhaul the other.
Mercilessly he pressed her on, until her ears flattened, and her head stretched out straight with her labor up the hill, then over it and shooting down a sharp slope at breathless speed. It seemed to Destry like plunging into the dark of a well; and the stars flew back over his head like sparks from a wheel. Then he was riding up the easy floor of a hollow and the trees stood on the ridges at either hand like fenceposts planted regularly.
But all was growing brighter as the moon came up in the east, small and dull behind a rag of clouds. By her light, Destry saw the rider before him far closer than at first and working desperately to drop his pursuer.
It could not be done! With a great upbursting of exultation, Destry knew that the other was surely being overhauled, and Fiddle herself like a hunting dog increased her pace as she saw the race in her grip.
They turned a sharp bend of the valley. The walls of it increased on either hand, and to make surety doubly sure, Destry saw that he had run his prey into a box cañon. Straight before him the way terminated in a low wall over which a stream of water tumbled into spray and showered across the rocks beneath with a continual hushing sound. Beyond the water stood the rim of the moon, so bright that it half dazzled Destry, and made more dim than phantoms the shadowy rocks and trees around him.
But in spite of that dimness he could not but be aware of one form running toward him. It was Chester Bent, who had fled long enough and now turned back to strike at his pursuer.
A bullet clipped the sombrero from Destry’s head, the bark of the gun crashed against his ear and the instant echoes repeated it in a harsh jumble. And he fired in turn, half blindly, being desperate with the knowledge that the light was in his eyes, obscuring all things for him as much as it illumined them for his enemy. He was in a thick mist, as it were, while Bent had at least a twilight to strike by. Both weapons spoke again. Pitching down the slip, Bent ca
me, horse and man, like a thrown missile, but the second bullet from Destry at least altered his course.
Up went the mustang on its rear legs. Destry saw the mouth gaped wide under the strain of the reins; the eyes were fiercely bright. It seemed more like a trained fighting beast than a harmless servant of any master.
However, it reared so high and so far that it passed the balance point, and toppled back as Bent, with a yell of anger and surprise, flung himself from the saddle. Horse and man went down, the crashing body of the big animal seeming to land fairly on top of its master. Yet when Destry sprang down from the back of Fiddle, it was to see Bent rolling over and over, then pitching to his feet.
Destry fired. There was no return. Instead, Bent came running in with a peculiarly rapid, dodging gait, so that Destry was amazed. It seemed as though Bent scorned to use a weapon, but preferred to fight out the battle, trusting to his bare hands.
There was no such folly in the mind of Bent, however. The holster on his thigh was empty; his fall from the horse had disarmed him and his only escape from the bullets of Destry was to get at the source of them.
The truth flashed up like fire in the mind of Harry Destry. The hypocrite, the traitor, the false friend he now held helpless under the nose of the Colt. No dodging could avoid the gun at such a distance, but Destry flung it suddenly from him.
For the fear left him. A sort of madness came on him as he saw this enemy rushing in with empty hands. Out of the past a picture poured upon his mind of the twelve men who had gathered to judge him and to rob him of a portion of his life.
All these years it had seemed a frightful mockery, a frightful sham, that verdict delivered by the “twelve peers.” Now, in an instant, all bitterness left him. Whatever weakness and sin there had been among them now was nothing contrasted with the overmastering sin of Bent. His evil, as it were, was a fire that burned the others clean.
Here was a peer, indeed, a king among men, towering above Destry in keenness of mind, in craft, in all subtlety. Only in one way could he be matched, and that was in strength of hand. So the pride stood up like flame in Destry. He shouted, as an Indian shouts rushing to battle, there was laughter in his throat as he plunged forward. They looked like two old friends, newly met and throwing out their arms to embrace each other. So it was that they appeared, but when they met, it was with a shock that spun them about. Then they fell into a hard grip.
The hands of Destry slipped and glided on the body of Bent. Now he knew for certain that sleekness was not fat but hardened muscle, from which his fingerhold failed. But Bent, in return, drove home his shoulder against Destry’s breast, staggering him; then in the excess of his power, he raised Destry floundering in the air. He was a helpless and clumsy child in the grip of Bent. He who had been so proud of his strength was unnerved and half unmanned by the first onset of his enemy.
Yet not beaten!
He was swung in the air, then hurled down, Bent casting his weight forward to fall upon his victim. But Destry, catlike, turned in the air, struck the earth with feet and hands, and dodged from the hands of Bent. His foot tripped on a rock with a violence that cast him head over heels down the slope. More desperately than ever he fought to regain his balance, came staggering to his feet, and braced himself to meet an onslaught that did not come!
Instead, he heard the beating of a horse’s hoofs, and yonder went Chester Bent on the back of Fiddle, rushing up the trail at the head of the cañon.
Vain curses poured from the throat of Destry. he had welcomed this last and greatest battle in a divine frenzy, but even in this he was tricked, eluded, baffled and shamed. He cried out loud, and ran a few stumbling steps in pursuit, until his foot struck the revolver which he had thrown away. He looked blankly down at it for an instant, then scooped it up.
Up the cliff-face on the winding trail went the rider, until at the top he burst out across the face of the moon which now stood just above the rim of the rock. It was an odd and terrible effect, as though Fiddle were snatched into the heart of the sky, racing down the slope of the constellation. Her mane and tail flew out. This was the last instant her former rider would see her, it seemed, and as he rode, Bent waved his hand, laughing.
Loudly, yet as from a distance, that laughter floated down to the ear of Destry, mixed with the ringing beat of the hoofs. It was the laughter that made him recover suddenly from his dream. The gun leaped high in his hand, barked.
And as its nose jerked up with the recoil, Destry saw Chester Bent lurch from the saddle of the flying mare—lurch, so to speak, from the white cradle of the moon. Both his arms were flung out; he dropped at once from view against the rock of the cliff-face.
For an instant, Destry held his breath. In that instant, he told himself that it was impossible. Such a man could not die in such a way, but by a last impossible touch of craft would rescue himself!
Then out of the darkness, Destry heard the impact, horrible, distinct, like huge gloved hands smitten together.
Chester Bent was dead!
Fiddle, in the meantime, had turned back, and coming across the moon once more, she paused there and whinnied anxiously into the dark of the ravine. Only then did Destry raise his head, which had fallen in profound thought. He let the Colt fall from his hand and turned back up the hill, stumbling. Even Fiddle he did not wish near him, for Fiddle had come to him through the dead man’s gift!
Chapter Forty-three
Destry went back to Wham, but he did not pause in the town; he went on through it until he came to the Dangerfield house beyond.
He hesitated to approach it. The place seemed dark, until he circled to the farther side and saw the dim glow of a lamp against the drawn shade. Coming up to the front of the old house, he heard voices on the veranda and he paused in the darkness to listen.
It was Docter Whipple and the Colonel. The doctor was saying: “They’re like willow. You can beat ’em and bend ’em, but still they’re tough and keep their life.”
“You mean that he’ll come through?” asked the Colonel.
“He’s got a tolerable fair chance,” said the doctor.
Destry suddenly remembered that there was no call for him to remain sheltered from view in the dark. He was a free man. There was no shadow of legal complaint against him. In all the world no one could give evidence that would place him in danger of the law. A load fell from his shoulders. He came quietly up the veranda steps.
“It’s Destry, most likely,” said the Colonel. “Is that you, Harry?”
“It’s me,” said he.
“Set down,” said the Colonel. “Ding Slater has just left, and he told us.”
“About Bent?”
“He told us everything. You’ve got him, son, or you wouldn’t be back, I reckon?”
“Bent is gone,” said Destry soberly. “Did I hear you say that the kid is going to pull through, Doc?”
“If he was ten years older,” replied Whipple, “he wouldn’t have a chance. But the young ones will bend without breaking. You might go up and see him. He’s been talking about you a good deal.”
“The fever,” said Destry. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty high. He needs sleep and——”
At this, a note of shrill, high laughter came sharply down to them from the upstairs of the house.
Destry listened with a shudder, and started toward the door. The Colonel accompanied him up the stairs to the right door, and there paused with him.
“Charlie is in there with the kid,” he remarked, “and before you go in, maybe you’ll let me know which turn your trail is gunna take with her, son?”
“Her way is my way,” said Destry, “so long as she’ll let me go with her.”
The Colonel nodded, and Destry tapped at the door. It was opened at once by the girl. She turned pale when she saw the newcomer, but stepped back and waved him in, pointing toward the bed.
Little Willie Thornton lay there, his arms thrown out wide, and looking sun-blackened until they were as dark
as a Negro’s skin. But his face was pale. He seemed gaunt and old; the skin was drawn tight and looked polished over the cheekbones. And his eyes rolled wildly.
“He’s mighty sick,” said the girl. “Speak to him, Harry!”
Destry sat on the side of the bed, and took one of the small, clenced fists in his hand.
“D’you know me, Willie?” said he.
“You’re Chester Bent,” said the boy. “It’s you that set me on fire, but Destry’ll come and put the fire out. He’ll find you, too. There ain’t any trail so long——”
His eyes grew vacant.
Destry took the youngster by both shoulders.
“It’s me—it’s Harry Destry!” said he. “D’you hear me, son?”
Into the eyes of Willie came sudden life and understanding.
“Hey, Harry!” said he. “Hullo! I’m glad to see you. You’re safe from ’em, Harry?”
“Account of you, I am,” said Destry. “You fixed me up, old son!”
The boy smiled and his eyes closed.
“D’you mean it? And Bent?”
“Bent’ll never be seen again.”
The boy nodded, his smile increasing.
“I reckoned that you’d tend to him,” said he. “Why don’t they figger it out with sense? They ain’t nobody that ever could give you no trouble, Harry! I reckon that you’re the top wrangler everywhere!”
Destry looked back to the swift and desperate fight in the shadow of the narrow ravine and he said nothing, but thought the more. Willie Thornton’s closed fist relaxed in the grip of Destry. The haggard tautness relaxed in the face of the boy, and a slight perspiration gleamed on his forehead and moistened his hand. In a moment he was sleeping. Another moment still, and he smiled in his sleep.
“You’re the best doctor, Harry!” said the girl.
She had been leaning beside him all this time and now Destry looked up at her through a mist of vast weariness.
“Charlie,” said he, “I wonder if this here is the end of the trail?”