Brand, Max - 1924

by Clung (v1. 1)

  At any rate you ought to be willing for a double reason to come back to me. We'll find reasons to give Winifred. Perhaps you can say that you regret what you did to Clung — inadvertently, at that — and that you want to redeem yourself in her eyes by helping her to find the outlaw. She'll believe you. On the subject of Clung, I assure you, she's blind and unreasonable and would question the help of no man. Perhaps this same quest for Clung will be the lever by which you pry your way back into the affections of Winifred. Oh, lad, it will be a happy day for me when that happens.

  Whatever you do, do it quickly. I have secured a moment of grace. Until Monday we stay here, and by that time you can surely be with us, make your peace with Winifred, and start for Kirby Creek.

  Kirby Creek! The dumping ground of half the desperadoes of the country — gun fights and killings every day — what a place for a woman to go! But a sheriffs posse could not keep Winifred back and I shall not make the effort.

  Speed is the thing, Billy. If you want to save your game, play now!

  Yours most miserably, John Sampson.

  He scrawled his signature and mailed the letter. It was hardly in the box before he wished it were out again. He should have made it stronger, more emphatic by far; but he walked back gloomily to the house.

  He found Winifred surrounded with purchases. She had spent the afternoon in a dry goods store preparing herself for the life in the rough mining camp and laying in a stock of khaki clothes, short riding-skirts, broad brimmed hats, boots, spurs, and every necessity. She had thought of her father's comfort and in his room lay his own requirements neatly stacked upon his bed. He looked on them with a feeling that fate was upon him.

  Also, she had learned all the details of the ways to Kirby Creek and had decided in favor of the stage which wound through the hills up and down a hundred miles to Kirby Creek. She became insistent that they take the stage on the morrow. There was apparently only one way to hold her in the town, and John Sampson took it. Before night he was in bed with a fever.

  It was not all assumed, for his nervous anticipations had set his nerves on edge, and like the ringing of a bell the name Clung echoed through his head by day and night. Sometimes he recalled, bitterly, with how soft a step the fellow had stepped on to the verandah and into the lives of the three of them. How soft a step! Indeed, the strength of Clung was like the strength of silences. It would have been safer to guess at the mind and will of a lone wolf than to try to unravel the inner being of Clung.

  Not the mental problem alone, but the physical labor of the quest and its danger occupied his mind. He regretted now that he had flung the Bible away from him in the shop of old Li Clung. Surely the father was in communication with his son and would warn him that John Sampson meant no good to Clung. And if that warning was carried to the strange fellow, what would be the outcome of it? Perhaps an approach in the middle of the night, silent as the slipping of a snake's belly over a polished floor, the gleam of a knife blade in the dark, and then the thud of the handle striking home, and horrible death; or the fellow might stalk up to him with his easy step in the middle of the day, shoot him down and ride off again into the heart of the desert. These fancies grew upon John Sampson, for though he now knew that Clung was white, he still attributed to Clung all the cold and subtle cruelty and remorse-lessness with which the Occident generally dresses its conception of the East.

  In the meantime the long tenure of his bed began to irk him and the hours dragged slowly through Sunday, On Monday, the doctor had assured Winifred, her father would be able to travel over even a hard road. So Sampson waited for Monday nervously, thinking of Clung on the one hand and of William Kirk on the other; for Kirk might come on that day if he started from the north as soon as he received the letter of appeal.

  So he delayed the hour for his rising on Monday morning, delayed it until the prime of the day; and he had hardly finished his dressing when he heard a very heavy footfall ascend the front steps, and then the excited cry of Winifred in greeting.

  "Billy Kirk!"

  "Winifred, by the Lord, it's good to see you!”

  That heavy bass voice was like the trumpet of a rescuing angel to John Sampson.

  Chapter 18

  He hurried to his door, set it a little ajar, and shamelessly played the eavesdropper.

  "And it's mighty pleasant to see you, Will.”

  "Honestly, Winifred?”

  "Of course!”

  A great note of relief came in the voice of Kirk.

  "Then you've forgiven me, eh?"

  "At least, I’m trying to forget about it, Will. I was pretty bitter about it for a while, but now I realize that you had no idea just what John Ring's status might be. It was two-thirds curiosity, wasn't it? You simply wanted to see if you had guessed right, and if Ring was really an outlaw."

  There was a little pause, and even in his hiding place John Sampson winced, for he knew that the searching eyes of the girl were passing up and down the face of William Kirk. Then the voice of Kirk replied, growing hard as he nerved himself to an ordeal.

  "I'll be straight with you, Winifred. I might wriggle out of it in that way, but I won't. The plain, dirty truth is that I was jealous of Clung."

  "Jealous?"

  "No, no! Of course I don't mean in that way. But I was jealous of his influence over you, and jealous of the way in which the fellow seemed able to make me out a coarse and stupid fool whenever the three of us were together. I always felt, you see, that he was the silk and I was the rough-surfaced wool. Is that clear?"

  "Perfectly."

  "What a little aristocrat you are, Winifred! Well, now your eyes are scorning me again and you're commencing to be formally polite."

  "Not a bit. But I want to think it over. That's all. You have to expect that, don't you, Billy?"

  "I suppose so. Take this into consideration, too. I was just back from a close call with death and my nerves weren't very strong. I was hardly myself when I made that very rotten move, Winifred."

  "But I have to remember who brought you back from that close call with death, Billy."

  "Exactly, but ingratitude, now and then, is a mighty human failing."

  "A very black one, Billy."

  "If it's persisted in."

  "Well?"

  "I haven't persisted in mine. I'm going to try to undo in a way what I've already done."

  "I'm perfectly ready to believe you."

  "When you see me do it, eh? That's a man to man, straight from the shoulder way to look at it. If I can manage to help Clung, will that restore us to something of the old footing?"

  "I hope so — in a way."

  "This is straight stuff. Three things brought me back to the Southwest. Now, I know I might make a pretty speech and say that I came only for your sake.”

  "Please don't.”

  "My dear girl, I know you much too well for that. Well, there are two things beside you. The first after you, to be frank, is that I haven't gotten the feel of this dry, keen air out of my lungs. I’ve been hungry for this country. It’s the desert fever. I’ve been dreaming about the open stretches, the wide skies, and I’ve smelled the sweat of hot horses in my dreams. Tried the outdoor life up north but it hasn't the same tang.”

  "You look wonderfully fit.”

  "Don't I! Hard as a brick, too. You’d laugh if you knew how I’ve been spending half my time. Rigged up a little target range at my country place and I’ve spent two or three hours a day there practicing with guns. Guns have a new meaning after one has seen a fellow like Clung make a draw. Gad! D’ you remember how he dropped from his chair to the floor and how those guns of his simply jumped into his hands?”

  She laughed, excitedly.

  "I’ll never forget it, Billy.”

  "So the first reason I wanted to come south was to live the life again. The last reason is that I want to redeem myself with Clung. In a word, Winifred, I want to help you hunt for him and find him and put him back on his feet."

  "Billy,
this is real man's talk!"

  "If you can use me, tell me where.”

  "We start for a wild mining camp today. By stage. It'll be a Godsend to have you. Poor Dad is worn out with tagging about after me.”

  "Where is he? I’ll pay my respects.”

  "Just knock at that door. He’s dressing now.”

  And a moment later John Sampson found himself staring into the eyes of William Kirk.

  He was singularly changed. He looked, as he had said, perfectly fit and hard as nails. The frame which had been wasted to pitiful gauntness by disease was now filled and a mighty bulk of muscles swelled the coat at each shoulder. More important still was a certain strong self-confidence in the man's bearing which went hand in hand with his bulk; of still greater significance was the brightness and steadiness of the eyes.

  "Gad!” breathed John Sampson. "How you've changed, lad, how you've changed!"

  He clapped a hand on either broad shoulder of the giant, reaching to the level of his own head to do so; and he conjured up, in contrast, the image of Clung, frail, delicate handed, nervous of gesture and gentle of eye. This was such an ally as he needed.

  "I have.”

  "Chiefly — inside?"

  "Chiefly inside."

  "And Clung?" queried Sampson cautiously.

  "Well?"

  "I heard what you said to Winifred."

  "John Sampson, you old fox!"

  "And you Billy?"

  "I suppose," said the other, and shrugged his heavy shoulders, "that I'll have to play the fox too."

  "For whose sake, Billy?"

  "Damned if I know."

  "Not your own?"

  "To tell you the truth —" began Kirk.

  "You seem," cut in the financier dryly, "to be bothered a good deal by the truth these days, Will."

  "H-m-m!" growled the big man. "And what if I am? Don't you think it's a fairly decent thing to be bothered by?"

  "Excellent!" sneered Sampson. "Excellent! It will be of great benefits to you, my boy — in the hereafter!"

  "What an infernal old cynic you are!”

  "Not a cynic. Practical, my lad.”

  “You are."

  "That sort of practice —"

  "Sends men to hell. Come, come, Billy. Between your gun practice up north you've been going to Sunday school, eh?"

  And he laughed softly.

  A young man is not apt to insist upon morals when he finds them scoffed at by his elders.

  "I'm not lying to you, Sampson,” he protested, reddening.

  Not a bit,” said the other instantly, you're merely telling me what you think you think. And I suppose that you're going to do exactly what you said you’d do when you were talking with Winifred. You're going to help her find Clung.”

  "I am,” said the other, and squared his shoulders resolutely, "I owe Clung more than that — more than — “

  "Not so loud! Well, after you bring the two together you'll send them a wedding present and then step gracefully out of the picture — and back to your Sunday school?”

  "Sampson, you’d anger a saint.”

  "I hope so.”

  "D’ you really think that Winifred —“

  "When she finds he’s white, lad, the novelty of the thing will knock her off her feet. Afterwards she'll have a good many years for repentance, but that won't help me — or you. You're still fond of her, Billy?"

  "Hopelessly."

  "Not entirely. Patience, Billy, accomplishes strange things with both stock markets and women. Besides, do I have to draw you a picture of what the girl's life would be with Clung? His blood may be white but his mind is Oriental, Billy. You know that."

  "Listen," said the tall man and frowning he shook off the hands of Sampson, "if I listen to you any longer I may be hypnotized. I won't listen. I want to do the right thing."

  "Of course. So you're going to begin by running to Winifred and telling her that you know Clung is white."

  Kirk was silent.

  "There's the door. She's in the other room."

  Still silence from Kirk.

  "She'll be glad to hear it; very glad!"

  Kirk seized the knob with sudden resolution, hesitated, and finally slumped into a chair that creaked under the impact of his great weight; he sat regarding Sampson with an ominous and steady scowl.

  "I suppose," he muttered at last, "that you win."

  "I knew," nodded the other, "that you had not entirely lost your wits; they've been merely frostbitten in the north. Wait until your blood circulates and you'll be reasonable. I'm in no hurry. In the meantime, the thing of importance is to find Clung — yes — and then call the law on him before Winifred reaches him."

  "A pretty little plan — very pleasant,” sneered Kirk.

  "By which you are the winner. If Clung is gone, she'll turn to you at last."

  "What'll make her?"

  "The habit of having you around. Habit, my dear boy, is usually several points stronger than what the poets call love."

  And he teetered complacently back and forth, from heel to toe, and grinned upon William Kirk. The big man sighed.

  "I came down here to have a good time," he said, as if to himself. "To enjoy a long vacation, and incidentally to set myself right in the matter of Clung. I seem to be on the way —"

  "To just the same sort of vacation, my lad," broke in the older man, "except that instead of putting yourself right with Clung, you'll put yourself right with Winifred. In the meantime you can play as much as you like — ride your sweating horse — swing your guns — drink this abominable bar whiskey — and in general, be a happy young fool."

  "There's acid on your tongue,” grumbled Kirk.

  "And reason,” nodded Sampson.

  "After all," murmured the other, and he frowned into a corner of the room, "why not?"

  Chapter 19

  As if by mutual consent of horses, driver, and passengers, the stage, as it topped the last ascent above the hollow of Kirby Creek, came to a halt on the little plateau of the hill-crest. Below, clambering up in a rude swarm like soldiers to an assault, stretched the huts of the town, mere lean-tos propped against the steep hillsides. They were pitched like tents wherever the will of the owner decided, and decided hastily. Indeed, there were four tents to every cabin in that little host. On the veritable verge of the town men labored at holes in the ground, and down the ravines on every side pick and shovel winked in the keen sunshine as the laborers burrowed at the soil. From this distance the utter silence made the stir the more impressive. Then the wind, which had been blowing down the main valley, swerved and blew directly in the face of the stage. Slowly up the wind came the voice of the labor, a clicking of metal in it, and the rumble of men's voices, and now and then the sharper note of a braying burro, or the whinny of a horse, but all subdued and blended by the distance into a murmur no louder than the hum of a bee — an angered bee, heavily laden and struggling against the wind. The men in the stage sat forward in their seats, and their hands gripped and relaxed automatically as if they were already in spirit attacking the earth and hunting for treasure.

  Not an eye turned to right or left. They were thinking, each man of himself— visions of the "strike." And they were silent and awed. Gold! It banished the reality of burned, brown hillsides and the muddy creek far beneath. It raised visions of columned entrances, stately ships, beautiful women with jewelled hands and throats. All this of beauty and grace, but the light that it kindled in the eyes of the treasure hunters was a hard, keen fire. Not one of the passengers, not John Sampson in spite of his great wealth already accumulated, nor William Kirk with the desert-fever upon him, nor Winifred with her mission of charity, but found himself drawn at a single step to the edge of hate and murder and bitter battle for gold.

  Down the slope and into the city of gold the stage passed. It rolled on unheeded, for every man on the rude streets was like the men in the stage; he was looking straight before him, with keen, hard eyes, thinking only of himself, the
strike he had made, or was to make, or had missed.

  But already the receivers of gold were mixed with the finders and the spenders. Their presence was made known in a hundred places. Here came a woman with vast, red, bare arms — bare to the elbow. She carried a flimsy parasol of blue silk, and twirled it constantly. At every motion of her hand a score of great diamonds flashed in the sun; and around her throat was a yellow, glimmering chain supporting a glorious ruby. The jeweler was there on the heels of gold.

  And another woman, sauntering. A man, passing, changed glances with her, stopped, and turned to walk on at her side. She and her kind who follow men over the world, they were here also on the heels of gold.

  Here came two men, arm in arm, reeling. Alternately they cursed and laughed, then broke into a song of reeking vulgarity. The saloon was there on the heels of gold.

  And now a large man in dapper clothes with a heavy gold watch-chain across the vast expanse of his stomach and a bright necktie at his throat. He walked leisurely, and his small, bright eyes picked out face after face and lingered on them a moment like the hawk searching the field below for mice. The confidence man was there on the heels of gold.

  Passing him, another type — pale, slender, stoop-shouldered with white hands exceedingly agile and forever busied with the lapel of his coat or in pulling out his handkerchief. White hands and strangely agile and swift and sure, the sign of his trade. The gambler is here on the heels of gold.

  The very air was changed in Kirby Creek. To breathe it was to breathe hope, chance, danger. It set the blood tingling.

  William Kirk turned to Winifred.

  "Do we stay here?" he asked.

  "He is here," she answered.

  "Can you trust yourself here among these men?"

  "They're Southwesterners, Will. I'm safer among them than I would be walking the streets at home with an escort. Besides —"

  "Well?"

  "I like it!"

  He looked at her in amazement. She seemed to have awakened; her face flushed, her eyes shining with excitement.