by John Long
Jeff Rand was a solitary and silent and strong-willed man, who had faced a life of misfortune, hardships and dangers. But now he was beaten. The gang had committed a thorough piece of brutality. There was no hope left for him; and he would have been better dead. Rand’s mangled hands resembled jerked hunks of raw meat.
How long he sat there in torment he had never any clear idea. He wanted to wrap the things up again but he had not the strength or courage just then; he wanted to keep them wrapped up for always, because he knew they would never look much different, and that they would surely rouse repugnance and distrust even in a friend. Desire for revenge and inability to take it waged a frustraing war within his breast, almost suffocating him with emotion. Slowly, hesitatingly he again raised his white face and forced himself to look. Those hands were twisted, lacerated, with blue fingernails all displaced, with thumb-joints deformed – they were the cruel talons of a hawk.
‘What are you doing, son? You shouldn’t have pulled the bandages off. I knowed and said you shouldn’t, son.’ Ma Keller stood beside him, looking fretful with red-rimmed eyes, and speaking in that soft and husky voice which always thrilled Jeff. ‘Try to be patient. They seem worse than they really are, dear me. Them slight fractures can heal up like new, son, if you’ll quit trying to bully nature. Sure ’tis no bizness of the Kellers how you came by such brutal mishandling, and you may keep silent if you must. But just remember this, son, that we aim to do duty by our neighbours, as it will never be held agin us nohow.’
‘Yes, ma’am. I understand, an’ I’m a-telling yez I’m sorry.’ mumbled Jeff, glancing quickly up at her then bowing his head. ‘Appears like I don’t savvy gratitude by one rotten cent.’
‘Independence don’t get no persons nowhere, son. We all need somebody to lean on sometime. You just keep those hands covered if you’re after getting well quick. I’m guessing you have something important to do, and waiting sends you wild. If you’re patient, son, and start all over agin to get the grip o’ things, you’ll soon be trailing away.’
Rand gave her another quick look, wondering how much she meant by ‘get the grip o’ things’. She made one of those special smiles at him, so that her brown old face became a mass of yellow wrinkles.
‘Teresa,’ she softly called through the doorway. ‘Chase out that jar of salve. We’ll truss this man up agin. Everything’s all right. He’s a-going to quit his boyish pranks in the future.’
She was a fine old lady, and she really understood a fellow; there was none of that sentimental ballyhoo about Ma Keller, but just one big unselfish load of good feelings. So Jeff ruminated watching her return inside, her coarse black skirt rasping against the log wall.
Ma Keller did not know what risk she took harbouring him: and it was this conscience-hounding thought which, the more grand she behaved towards him, kept a-piling more fire into Rand’s impatience to recover and ride.
Excitement, increasing daily, began to thrill the remainder of Rand’s stay at the ranch. Thanks to Ma and the care of Teresa he was soon forever rid of those maddening bandages; although he knew the sight of his awful talons was a source of grim uneasiness to the good people, they never gave sign of it as he made animal-like fumblings with cutlery at mealtimes, and let fall a couple of coffee mugs. He had to learn again how to use his fingers, to use them naturally, not finding makeshift methods that could grow into awkward habits which would betray he was disabled. He began to plan out a course of exercises to be practised frequently, just like he was a pianoforte player, with the difference that his life would depend on the final test. At times he grew morose, despaired, saw no progress, and was ready to call quits: but it was Teresa’s scorn that rallied him to fight on. Whenever he made a little victory, such as opening a can or tying a strap, it was Teresa’s praise that spiced his pleasure, deepening his interest, making the situation not miserable but novel. Rand had to learn again how to grip a gun: that was his object in life, and this Teresa failed to consider. He must train to draw swiftly to kill or be killed.
Sometimes behind the woodshed, and sometimes in his room, Rand secretly practised finger exercises for many wearying hours, aiming at a high standard of virtuosity with his instrument, the six-gun. The pain and labour he underwent all alone, with apparently little reward was heartbreaking even for a man naturally swift of action and without his impediments. It seemed ages before he permitted himself to buckle on his gunbelt and seriously try out what he had learned afresh. That day was a kind of crisis for him, a first grade examination.
It was somewhere around noon when Rand stealthily disappeared behind the stable. He was sweating, trembling, afraid to try it. He had stood an empty can on the broken fence Pa kept threatening to fix, but after glaring somewhat belligerently at it for all of five minutes, his shoulders sagged and he turned away. Then, like a wild-cat released from a snare, he swirled about, dust rose, two guns glittered, spurted, flashed and thundered repeatedly over the Keller’s peaceful ranch-house. A piece of torn metal was left plastered to the fence. Rand’s eyes glittered wickedly in a face both white and expressionless.
‘Good God protect us!’
It was Teresa. She had followed him, seen it happen, yet was not sure, it came so sudden, and now she stood as if paralysed by a strange sickness.
Hearing her exclamation Rand turned sharply, guns smoking. This fresh alarm, peering down those black weapons then at his taut face, caused her to gasp and spill the basket of apples she carried. This was not the man she knew. Gradually Rand appeared to recover from a trance as he watched her, becoming distracted by a quaintly pulsing cord of her neck. The terrible cold gleam faded from his eyes and colour again suffused his face.
‘I-I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he whispered throatily. ‘Thought I spied me a jack-rabbit.’
‘A rabbit? On that fence?’she asked, shakily retrieving the fruit.
‘Yes, ma’am; on that fence,’ Jeff weakly asserted, glancing at the fence to see if it were possible.
Dolefully he returned his guns, grimly aware that never, not since he was a kid in Tucson, had he drawn a gun so slowly.
‘Son; is that you, son! Was you a-shooting something, son!’
They could hear Ma calling from the house.
‘Best not make her fearful anymore, Mister Rand,’ Teresa coldly reproved. ‘Luckily Pa’s away, gone to Flintstone on the buckboard, else he would be real riled with you. If you must practise guns, we would like warning of it in future, please. I’ll try easing Ma with your jack-rabbit talk this time, after hacking away that awkward bit o’ fence.’
‘Thanks, Teresa. I wouldn’t upset the old lady for anything really. I’m more’n grateful to yuh.’ He slapped his holsters. ‘I’ll do my hunting a long stretch from the house after this. Sometimes a fella has to hunt this way to live.’
She had turned to leave but the last remark made her hesitate anxiously.
‘Bloodshed’s a crazy and dangerous revenge, so I figure, Mister Rand.’
‘You’ve said it, ma’am.’
‘The sheriff of Flintstone is paid to run down road-agents that attack poor men like yourself,’ she pursued, blushing as she gazed up at him.
‘These partic’lar road-agents overpaid me, Teresa,’ Rand carefully answered, looking woefully at his hands. ‘Being honest, I figure to hand back the change, with interest.’
‘Some honesty has a heavy penalty.’ Her voice had become tremulous and unconsciously she had drawn near to him; she could almost have touched his poor hands, or even those horrible black guns that frightened her so much.
Rand did not reply. He kept staring down queerly into her eyes, while his heart kept a-throbbing right giddily. She seemed to feel all her secret thoughts being closely studied just then. How long they might have remained there in this fashion was difficult to calculate. But a further call from Ma Keller ended the incident. She shuddered and felt strangely cold as she walked or almost ran away, and Rand’s eyes trailed her with the same boring intensity.
> CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There was no more gunfire. In secret and silence Rand practised his draw behind the out-buildings. The test had proven two things: his aim was still excellent, but otherwise he was an utter failure.
A new routine of life was formed, wherein he only appeared at mealtimes. After breakfast he tended his horse, and always carefully avoided Pa lest he was given chores to do. Then he strolled out on the range for the morning, occasionally taking a pack of grub prepared by Teresa.
If he returned late he sought out Teresa, anxiously asking if she had seen a strange rider with a fine saddle and a gay laugh. But whenever Pa tracked him down to mention riding herd, doing stable work, wood-chopping or well-sinking, then it was a source of amusement for the women to hear what complaints Rand could suddenly contract, some of them only applicable to horses. The very thought of work seemed to make the fellow ill, more ill than is natural, that is. Rand knew how work would stiffen fingers already too stiffened. Except for the horrible look of those hands he was real healthy, with his face the colour of best quality mahogany, and a springy liveliness in his stride. Now he never opened a gate or climbed a fence, he always leapt them. Now he talked less than ever, but always smiled. It was a peculiar smile, the smile of a man who carries and treasures a secret. The flash of determination in his eyes had changed into a narrow-lidded gleam of hope, as though he at last felt the progress he was making, and had maybe glimpsed his goal.
The gunfighter’s recovery was watched with keen interest especially by Teresa, despite her natural repugnance at knowing his private intentions. She could scarcely hide her pleasure to see his health and self-confidence return. Both she and Ma kept defending him mightily against the old man, whose allusions to Rand’s bone-laziness grew daily more open and hostile. Ma right plainly packed a load of pity for the gunman, while Pa’s suspicions of his guest’s bloody profession made him as ill-tempered as a mule in a cactus patch. It was kind of sad to hear the poor old fellow raving when Rand was absent, or just round the corner accidentally overhearing, for in private Rand was slaving like two men, fighting a great battle for self-control and power with a six-gun. Nevertheless, Jeff’s hands remained slow and clumsy as everybody could easily witness. They did not respond the same; they stayed deformed, and still looked like the talons of a hawk.
The day arrived when Rand deliberately broke his routine. He did not take much breakfast that morning; he even left Pa to attend his own horse, one thing he had never done before. All the day long he remained at the ranch-house, Pa’s rocker kept up an incessant creaking like an old pendulum clock. But Rand was busy, quietly busy, making patterns on paper, then shaping out a piece of high-quality leather, with which he sewed very carefully into his holsters, and stained with berry juice as a kind of disguise.
The sun began to set. The old rancher returned, filled with curiosity, and sank down on the veranda steps to watch Rand finish the work.
‘Been labouring hard, son?’ he asked, a tone of reproach in his voice as he mopped his boiled-looking face. ‘Thought I mighta seen you with me at the well today. Water’s coming back to the land, but only slow, too derned slow, yet she’s sure enough a-coming, son.’
‘Sorry, Mister Keller. I thought about your well, then my mind switched on to them bugs and flies – and I felt my malaria rising fast. I had to hold myself back, I might tell yuh.’ Jeff looked mournful as he excused himself.
‘Shucks, son! Bugs and flies ain’t nothing. A fella gets used to the critters. I’m real hardened now, and likes to have their company almost. Hearing them a-buzzing and feeling them crawl keeps yuh cussing, and then you don’t feel lonely anymore, and quit worrying about life.’ He chuckled and lit his pipe. ‘Say, how’s that liver complaint, anyhow?’
‘Shaping,’ admitted Jeff. ‘Shaping nicely, thanks.’
‘Huh! Never had a one in all my life,’ the old fellow proudly declared, staring with odd determination at the horizon. ‘Hard work warded ’em off I reckon. All I ever suffer from is poverty, all along o’ my staying on to fight that blamed desert. Everybody quit ’cept me and old man James with fifty-odd cows. He died. I even beat him.’ He chuckled again, more proudly. ‘Yep; but just when I’m fixing to build up the old place now the dust’s drifting off, I have to sell out.’ His voice began to shake, implying hidden anger and sorrow. ‘When those blood-sucking hoodlums cleaned out Flintstone bank, son, they flattened out old man Keller. I’m broke.’
Rand was unprepared to hear this tragedy: for once his face betrayed him. He flushed in what might have been guilty confusion, and the gunbelt he worked on slipped from his knee.
‘A raw deal that there, Pa,’ he managed to mutter. ‘When do you break up the old homestead?’
‘In the fall,’ the old-timer replied, hiding his grief by lifting and studying Rand’s gunbelt. ‘ ’Cept for that crime I could have hired cowpokes next year, real hard workers I mean.’ He stressed the last words for Jeff’s benefit. ‘You see, when folk ran before the desert, they took to digging gold. I scorned them for it; they were ranchers not miners. They were doing a wrong thing. Ranching is your honest-to-goodness living, I said. Stay and fight. Keep your homes. Damn the gold!’ He puffed furiously at his pipe, and then dejectedly went on, ‘But now they’re sitting pretty, son, and I’m the poor fool because I did right. Lucky devils, all of ’em. Say, was you ever at the diggings? I hate them.’
‘Yeah, Pa. I’m a gold digger.’ confessed Jeff.
‘There! See what I mean? Everybody’s the same. And I bet you and your kin are right down rich,’ argued the rancher.
‘No, just murdered,’ Rand purred the evil word.
The old man snatched his pipe from his mouth and looked shocked. He found difficulty in digesting a sudden remorse.
‘Well, well, well! Have you nobody then, son; no pardner nor nothing?’
‘Murdered!’ Rand sounded more forbidding.
Pa Keller looked even more distressed. He wanted to sympathise, but gentle emotion like that never came easy to him. At this moment he could only hate himself for a talkative old croak, a buffer, or any other name fitting a tomfool crackpot. Rand’s manner, as he gave him a side-long look, was sending a queer thrill through his aged bones, same feeling he got last year when he found the well dried up and a snake at the bottom.
Giving a nervous cough Pa stretched out a horny hand and stroked the new leather work on Rand’s belt.
‘Knowed a gunslinger once as used this same slick leather on his holsters,’ he drawled amiably. ‘His name was Ives, worst cut-throat of the infamous Plummer Gang. Gunmen aren’t nowheres as fast as in the old days. Men are getting lazier and slower of action, because of lucky strikes, I reckon. George Ives was hanged at Nevada City.’
Rand took back the gunbelt and buckled it on.
‘Seen any strangers on the range today, Pa,’ he mildly asked.
‘Not yet,’ answered Keller, forcibly restraining his curiosity. ‘Few fellows ever ride through here now. But mebbe yonder’s the man you want.’
Pointing to a single rider cantering through a distant patch of sage-brush, the rancher arose and wearily descended the steps. He failed to notice Rand’s shocked face, and did not hear him ease himself out of the rocker and glide into the house.
A moment later Rand was watching proceedings through a ventilator in the small store room.
‘Hi, Sheriff! Wondered when you’d honour us agin,’ he heard Pa call out. ‘Let’s huck down here where it’s cooler.’
Rand heard Pa’s step on the veranda, followed by the heavier football of a short and broad middle-aged man. The sheriff’s hands were interestingly white. Unthinkingly Rand slid his own hands in his pockets and listened closely.
‘Glad to see you, Pa,’ boomed the famous sheriff of Flintstone as he began to swing in the rocker with a certain familarity. ‘Sunk another well, I see.’
‘Yes, and the water’s seeping in, slow but sure, Bill. Even the old lake will come back, that’s a prophecy
. Things will be just like when you was foreman.’
‘Sure it will, Pa. ’Pend on that. How’s the old lady and the gal?’ inquired the sheriff, lowering his voice. ‘Have you told ’em?’
‘They’re bearing up well.’ Pa sounded uneasy. ‘I mentioned being broke, off-handedly. I didn’t say how broke, not a word about the hold-up, or selling out.’
In the store-house Rand, fearful of Ma or Teresa entering to serve something to the visitor, dared hardly move among the hanging pieces of crockery. He could have reached out and touched the sheriff’s smartly-plastered hair.
‘Hang fire with your sad news,’ continued the sheriff. ‘Mebbe you won’t have to sell. Mebbe I’ll lay-low that bank-busting gang afore long. Wait and see.’
‘Got a rope stretched for ’em, have you, Bill?’ Pa began prying. ‘What’s your scheme?’
‘Don’t sell out, that’s all,’ the sheriff firmly told him again. ‘Well now, have you seen any strangers around?’
‘Strangers, strangers, strangers! Everybody asking for strangers. Who do you fellows expect here, the president or something?’ Pa’s pipe was sending up furious smoke-signals once more. ‘Like I told Jeff only a moment gone, nobody comes here now.’
That was enough; that did it. Rand could hide no longer. He must get out of here and ride. A few moments more and that sheriff would know everything and come a-searching. The time to ride had arrived before he was ready, before his hands were fully prepared: and he hadn’t even tried out these new-style holsters.