Brand, Max - 1924

by Clung (v1. 1)

  "Clung, she came tonight and wanted to know what her money could do in the hiring of a lawyer for you. And the other man — he has gone north. She hates him. I think in a way, Clung, that I wouldn't have come here tonight if I hadn't seen her. She loves you, lad; she almost loves you even while she thinks you're a Chinaman. Think of it!"

  That smile which the marshal knew, that stern curling of the upper lip, changed the face of the other.

  He said: "If she came to me crawling on her knees in the dust it would not change me. She could not repay the pain of that time when she first turned from me. Such a pain, sir, would burn her away to light ashes and dust — kill her like the flame. She cannot repay me. I do not ask repayment. It was my pleasure; it is my pain. I am Clung."

  "You go south?"

  "First I go to see my father; then I ride south. And some day the time will come when you shall need me. I will come. You will not need to hunt far or call long. I shall come. Time will not change me; distance will not make me forget. I am Clung.”

  "Clung, and a devil of pride,” said the marshal. "The lone trail is a long trail, but good luck go with you. Your killings are not ended, and you'll die hard yourself. But — there's the saw. Oil, too. You can cut through those western bars in a jiffy. Once started — well, here's two guns. I know you'll get loose. Don't shoot unless you have to. That's all I ask; and then don't shoot to kill.”

  As he closed the door behind him, he raised his lantern and looked back; Clung stood with folded arms, his head tilted back, his eyes half closed, faintly smiling.

  The marshal went back to his house and sat in his room waiting. An hour, two hours, three hours passed. Then he heard three shots fired in quick succession. He ran to the window and threw it wide; the echo of the sounds still trembled through the air.

  "The south trail sure enough,” said the marshal, "and the lone trail.”

  Chapter 13

  But if the escape of Clung was due to the kindliness of Marshal Clauson, certainly there was not a living soul in Mortimer or in any of the marshal's wide district who faintly dreamed the truth. The marshal was more widely famed for a hard fist and a nervous gun than for a gentle heart, and the reward which his own act of unadulterated goodness brought him was a general suspicion of growing inefficiency; for people could not but remember the length of time during which Clung ranged the desert, how he was at length brought to bay by force of chance and numbers; and now the desperado was set free to prey upon society through the carelessness of Mortimer's marshal. It was enough to irritate a much quieter town than Mortimer; the knowledge of it floated up to the higher circles of authority and brought a cold, brief telegram to Clauson.

  He defied the higher authorities with a snarl, for he knew that he was too valuable to be dispensed with; but what spurred him every day were the side-glances of careless contempt with which the cowpunchers and miners of the town favored him. Within a week Marshal Clauson hated the entire population of the Orient, particularly the Chinese, and among the Chinese he selected Clung himself for peculiar anathema. With all his heart he regretted the escape of the outlaw. That Clung was really white made no difference to the marshal — he could not separate his prejudice into fact and theory. He sent deputies far and wide in a vain effort to reclaim the fugitive from justice; but Clung had vanished from the face of the earth and not even a rumor of him floated back to the ear of Mortimer. Yet still the town waited, strong in the consciousness that such men as Clung, whether white or yellow, return eventually to their earliest hunting-grounds and bring a not inconsiderable portion of hell with them. They had seen Clung in action, and the picture would not fade readily from their minds. In the meantime they cast a glance of angry suspicion upon Marshal Clau-son and were fain to remark in his hearing that all men are apt to grow old.

  Which explains the mood of Clauson himself when one day his deputy entered from the outer office, leaned against the door and said: "They's a Chink outside wants to talk t’ you, Clauson.”

  The marshal looked up with a start.

  "A Chink?” he growled suspiciously. "See me? T’ hell with him. Tell him I’m busy.”

  "I already done it,” said the deputy.

  "Tell him I’m out of town.”

  "I already done it,” said the deputy.

  The marshal narrowed his eyes wistfully.

  "Partner,” he drawled with dangerous calm, "you ain’t kidding me a little are you?”

  "I'll tell a man I ain’t,” said the deputy hastily. " ‘S a matter of fact, Clauson, I told the fool Chink he’d be takin’ his life in his hands if he come in talkin' to you jest now, but all he does is stand there with his hands shoved up in his sleeves and bat his eyes at me and say: 'All same Yo Chai see Marsh Clauson.’ I never see such a fool!”

  "H-m-m,” said the marshal, "Yo Chai? Don't remember the name. What sort of a looking Chink is he?”

  "Kind of tall,” said the deputy, "for a Chink; skinny; round shouldered; wrinkled old yaller face; long pig-tail; got a moustache that — looks like a shadow of yours, marshal — just a few straggling long hairs on each side of his mouth."

  "Tell the old ape to beat it,” grunted the marshal. "I had enough of Chinks. Wait a minute. How's he dressed?"

  "Like a swell. All silk — padded stuff like a quilt, y'know. Red hat with a tassel; fancy Chink shoes."

  "Well," sighed the marshal, "let him in. I s'pose somebody's been swipin' his dope and he wants help."

  The deputy nodded and disappeared. His place at the door was taken almost at once by Yo Chai, a slender, rather bowed figure, carrying about him that air of distinction which goes with any gentleman no matter what the color of his skin.

  But the marshal was in no mood to appreciate fineness in a Chinese.

  "I'm busy," he greeted his visitor. "Start talkin' and finish quick."

  A soft voice answered: "Yo Chai wait till Marsh' Clauson got plenty time," and he turned back to the door.

  But the marshal at the sound of that voice leaped from his chair and shouted: "Wait!"

  Yo Chai turned, and at the sight of him Clauson lapsed back into his chair, staring in manifest bewilderment. The Chinaman bore this scrutiny without changing a muscle of his face.

  "Close the door,” said the marshal hoarsely at last, "and sit down."

  Yo Chai obeyed, and as he sat down murmured: "Ta hsi." (Great happiness.)

  Marshal Clauson let out a great breath which blew forth his moustaches, and the light of battle died slowly from his little eyes.

  "I was thinkin' for a minute," he sighed, "that you was — well, it don't make no difference."

  "The eyes of Yo Chai are old," said the Chinese, "but he sees clearly."

  Again, at the sound of that voice, the marshal started, leaned forward with a scowl, and then settled back into his chair.

  "Go on," he said. "What d'you think you seen?"

  "Marsh 5 Clauson thought Yo Chai much like Clung. Speak same."

  "Ah," said the marshal with renewed eagerness. "You know Clung?"

  "Little bit," said Yo Chai.

  "If you can lead me to him," said Clauson, I'll — I'll be your friend, Yo Chai — and a marshal's the sort of a friend that a Chink needs in Mortimer, eh?”

  "Marsh' Clauson want Clung?"

  "Do I? I'll tell a man I do!"

  "Why?"

  "Because he's a devil, Yo Chai."

  "T'ao Ch'i?" nodded Yo Chai, which means mischievous, young devil, and several other things.

  "Yep," said the marshal, who had a smattering of Chinese, "t'ao ch'i and a lot of other stuff. He'd got me in wrong with the boys. Yo Chai, can you lead me to him?"

  "Yes."

  "God!" cried the marshal, and leaped from his chair with a shout of joy. "Yo Chai, you ain't lyin' to me? Give me one crack at him and I'm your man. How much d'you want for actin' as a guide? Nothing. Nothing?

  It is not worth money. It is a little thing to lead Marsh' Clauson to Clung. Also, Clung once belong Marsh' Clauso
n."

  "I had him once, so you don't want anything for bringin' me back my lost property, eh? Yo Chai, I see you're a good sort. Where is he, Yo?"

  The Chinese withdrew from the sleeve of his silken makwa, or horse-coat, a slender, dark yellow hand and pointed to his breast.

  "I," said Yo Chai calmly, "am Clung."

  "You?" gasped Clauson, "but Clung — your skin —"

  He broke down, stammering.

  "With soap and water,” said the other quietly, "I can make my skin white again.”

  "And you come back,” roared Clauson, "to show me how clever you are, eh? You came back thinkin’ you can slip out of my hands again? Clung, no man can't do it!”

  "Clung knew,” said the other gravely, slipping at once into perfect and fluent English, "that Marshal Clauson hated Clung. So he has come to give himself back. Marshal Clauson gave him a gift not long ago, but his heart was not with the gift. Clung has heard, so he has come back.”

  The body of the marshal seemed turning to jelly. He filled his chair loosely from arm to arm, his chin falling on his breast and his mouth agape.

  "Clung!” he said faintly at last.

  "At least,” said the other with the suggestion of a smile, "the voice of Clung was known.”

  He produced from the folds of his garment, with dexterous ease, a murderous knife and two revolvers, all of which he laid on the table. Then he held out his thin wrists side by side.

  "Fire shots,” said Clung, "and then bind my wrists with the irons. It will seem that Marshal Clauson took me by force and he will be greatly honored."

  Chapter 14

  Could a miser resist the gift of the touch of Midas? And to Clauson the temptation was greater than gold, for the recapture of Clung single-handed would raise his reputation to an eminence, silence his critics, make him, perhaps, at a single stroke the greatest and most feared officer of the law in the whole of the Southwest. All these thoughts burned themselves into his brain and seared his heart with the brightness of the things he saw. It was the steady resignation of the eyes of Clung which recalled him slowly to himself. But even then he was shaken like a man who has ridden for two days without rest, cramped and tortured by the saddle. Clung understood the outcome of that battle without a word. He dropped his arms to his side. "Another time,” he said in his gentle voice, "the marshal may regret that he has lost me twice. Then he shall know where to find me. I am going to Kirby Creek. Gold has been found. Hundreds and thousands of men have rushed to Kirby Creek. Even Clung will be lost among them; he will be lost among them and known as Yo Chai. If you need me, send for Yo Chai. Be sure that I will get up in the night from bed, even from sickness, and come to you. Ch'u men chien hsi. As you go out of the gate may you meet happiness."

  He had straightened himself to the former youthful lines of Clung, the killer of men, now he dropped back into the middle-aged stoop of Yo Chai, a rich Chinese merchant. Marshal Clauson stumbled — for a mist was before his eyes — to the door, and blocked the way for a moment.

  "Listen here to me, Clung," he said gravely. "You're white. After this there ain't no doubt you're white inside and out. For a minute back I was near to takin' you at your word and slinging you in the coop, but I couldn't do it. A Chink is one thing, but a white man is another. And you're white, Clung, damned white."

  Clung made a deprecatory gesture with his lean hands. They returned instantly to his sleeves and his dull eyes blinked past the face of Clauson.

  "Don't stand there sleepin' on your feet," said the marshal angrily, "I know you ain't a hop-head so don't try to look like one. Cut out the Chink lingo and ways. Maybe you're a good actor, Clung, but this don't make no hit with me. Act like a man and a white man, like you are — inside and out!"

  To this strenuous appeal Clung replied by merely blinking his eyes. To move him was like trying to wear granite with water. It irritated Clauson, who felt that his forbearance deserved a greater reward of confidence.

  "Clung," he said, "talk out, I'm your friend. I like you; but don't stand there blinkin' at me like a damned dobe idol! What you mean by givin' up the ways of the white man? Is it all just a disguise? D'you need a disguise agin me?"

  "There was a man named Clung," said the slender man, "and there came a time when he learned that he was white. He was very glad. He went among white men and they were brothers to him. They were very ugly in many ways, but they were his brothers. He loved them. But one of them stung him in the palm of his hand like a snake that he had warmed by his fire in winter, and others hunted him like a coyote up and down the hills, and there was a woman —"

  He stopped short and his breast heaved once.

  "Oh!" said Marshal Clauson, "I begin to follow you for the first time, Clung. Well, if it's the woman that rides your mind, Clung, you can be easy. She come in to me before you went free and asked what she could do for you. She was willing to do all you could ask a girl to do for a Chink, and if she knew you was white — well —"

  He finished with a suggestive smile, but the face of Clung hardened. He was picking up his guns and his knife again from the table and replacing them under his coat, and the way he handled them was not pleasant to see — the knife went home with a little jar that made the marshal start.

  "Does the color of the skin," he said, his voice evil and low, "change the color of a man's heart? If she knew me to be white would that change me? No, the white man sees only what his mind tells him to see. He follows stupid and ugly gods. Clung is dead, and Yo Chai remains. He has gone back to the gods of his fathers. He is happy with them."

  The marshal moistened his lips and then went on with less assurance: "D'you mean to tell me, Clung, that you'd rather be a Chink than a white man — one of the salt of the earth?"

  "Is a white man more honest?" asked Clung, with a ring like metal coming in his voice, and an uncanny brightening of his eyes. "Is he cleaner at heart? Does he talk less and more wisely? Does he know better what is beautiful and good? No! he chatters like a coyote over a dead beef — all noise and no meaning. He licks the hand that feeds him and then he bites it to the bone. He sees what his friends see but nothing for himself. He loves a horse because he pays a great price for it; he loves a woman because her body is beautiful. But the horse may stumble before it wins a race and the skin of a woman may be cheap under rich clothes."

  The marshal stepped back a little abashed, and his eyes wandered while he hunted for another argument with which to meet this tide of words, but the other swept on: "Who was Clung? K'e pu chih tao fa shih shut! (I do not know what he was.) He was half white and half yellow. To be all white is not good. I have seen and I know. So I have killed Clung. Now there is only Yo Chai. He is all yellow. He will sleep on a kang; he will pray to the gods of his fathers. Behind his front gate he will sit cross-legged on a mat of reeds and smoke (Pah! Clung hated the smell of tobacco smoke!). But now he will be all Chinese — all yellow. To be white is to be a fool; Clung was a fool.”

  "Clung,” said the marshal, scowling, "some of what you say sounds kind of reasonable, and some of it I don't follow and some of it is Chink chatter that no white man wants to know, but I sort of gather from your drift that what you said towards the end was enough to make me fight, eh?"

  "Ah," said the other and his voice and manner softened instantly from harshness to a gentle dignity that came from the heat, "Marshal Clauson is my father and I am ta shih fu (your big servant). Yo Chai must go."

  "And this is the end of Clung?" said the marshal, half sadly. "Well, lad, you done your bit while you was hanging around these parts — nobody ever done more. But if you go up to Kirby Creek you're going straight to trouble, Clung. They've got a tough lot up there. There's Dave Spenser that some calls the Night Hawk. A prime bad 'un he is, Clung, and no mistake. But he ain't all that's there. I been to Kirby Creek and I tell you straight from the shoulder that it's fuller of fights in the night than a big city. Every other shack is a saloon and dance hall, and the ones in between is gambling joints. And t
he men that go to a gold rush is chiefly crooks and fellers that ain't made a go of it in other places. They got nothing and they're ready to risk their hides for a dollar. Don't go to Kirby Creek, Clung."

  "Yo Chai,” said the other, with a swift glint of his dark eyes, "is not a dog. He will not run because men bark at him. If they bite, he has teeth.”

  And to prove it, his slow smile bared a row of white, perfect teeth.

  "That's just what I mean,” said the marshal anxiously, "before you been there a day you'll get in a fight, and when you get in a fight the devil’ll turn loose in you — and no man that's ever seen you pull your guns once can ever make a mistake in you if he sees you work a second time. Clung, I know!"

  "What does it matter?” said Clung solemnly. "I will not be a white man, and I cannot be all yellow even if I wish. There is only one thing left to Yo Chai, and that is to die. And if he dies, he hopes it will be with steel in his hand. So!”

  And speaking, his head tilted back in that familiar way, and his eyes half closed, and his smile dreamed on the far distance. As if he once more sat on the table in his father's laundry and exulted in the yellow, hot sunlight against his face.

  "I go,” he said, and thrusting his hands back into the alternate sleeves, he bowed until the black tassel of his red cap almost brushed against the floor. "I go, Marsh 5 Clauson. Once more: ch'u men chien hsi!"

  And with bent shoulders and jogging pigtail, he strode through the door at a pace of grave and sober-footed dignity.

  Chapter 15

  To at least one person in Mortimer the passing of Clung from the town that day would have been a great joy had he but known of it. That person was John Sampson. For a fortnight he had trailed Winifred about the town while she strove vainly to discover clues of Clung. As a rule she hunted alone, escaping from him with any pretext, for when he was with her he would ejaculate at every other step: "All this for a damned Chink!”