Red Fire

by Max Brand

  “Sure, I sleep on the floor,” he said, “when I got an ankle sprained so bad that I can’t move, hardly. Otherwise,” he added savagely, “d’you think that you would have been able to get the drop on me so dead easy as all this? Say, Friedman, d’you think that?”

  Friedman lingered at the door, taking careful stock of the thief. Hagger had no weapon at hand, therefore, he admitted carelessly: “It wouldn’t have made much difference. I didn’t have a bullet in the gun.”

  “You didn’t what?”

  The jeweler chuckled, and, throwing back the bolt, he exposed the empty chamber. “I lost the cartridges in the snow. I don’t know much about guns,” he declared.

  Hagger was a little moved. After all, $7,000 in cash would not give him food in the cabin or heal his injured ankle. But again he was touched with calm admiration of the shopkeeper. “Friedman,” he said, “did you ever do any police work? Ever have any training?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Well, nothing. Only you done a pretty fair job in getting at me here.”

  “When I heard about the way you’d shot the sheriff,” said Friedman, “and nearly killed him, I just started in circles from that point. There wasn’t anything hard about it.”

  “No?”

  “It just took time.”

  “What did you live on through the storm?”

  “Hardtack. I still got enough to bring me back to town.” He took a square, half-chewed chunk of it from the pocket of his great coat. “And what did you live on, Hagger?”

  The sublime simplicity of this man kept Hagger from answering for a moment, and then he said: “I found a little chuck in this shack . . . ate that . . . shot a couple of rabbits.”

  “What’ll you live on now?”

  “Hope, kid.” Hagger grinned.

  The jeweler scanned the cabin with a swift glance, making sure of the vacant shelves and the moldy, tomb-like emptiness of the place. Then a grin of savage joy transformed him suddenly, and he began to nod, as though an infinite understanding had come to him.

  “It’ll take a while,” he said. “You’ll last a bit. And maybe your ankle will get well first.”

  “Maybe,” said Hagger.

  “And maybe the man who owns this place’ll come back.”

  “Maybe,” said Hagger.

  Friedman turned his head a little, looked over the banked snows, and then at the growing clouds on the southern sky. “No,” he said with decision, “I guess not.”

  “Not?”

  “I guess not. None of those things’ll happen. This looks to me to be about the end of you, Hagger.”

  “Maybe,” assented Hagger.

  Friedman ginned again, with a sort of terrible, hungry joy.

  “You wouldn’t do a murder,” said Hagger curiously.

  “Me? No, I’m not a fool!”

  “Well . . .” said Hagger, and left the rest of his thought unsaid.

  He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Friedman was outside the door.

  “Hey, Friedman, Friedman!” called Hagger.

  The man turned and leaned through the doorway. “There’s no use whining and begging,” he said. “You got no call on me. You got what’s coming to you, and that’s all. If I were in your place, I wouldn’t whine.”

  “I want only one minute, Friedman.”

  “There’s a storm coming. I can’t wait.”

  “You’ll rot in hell, Friedman, if you don’t listen to me.”

  “Go on, then,” said Friedman, leaning against one side of the door. “I’ll listen.”

  “It’s about the dog,” said Hagger.

  VIII

  At this the eyes of the jeweler narrowed a little. One could see disbelief in them, but he merely grumbled: “Make it short, will you? What’re you driving at, Hagger?”

  “This dog, here, you take a look at him. You got a liking for dogs, Friedman, I guess?”

  “Me?” said Friedman. “Why should I like the beasts?”

  Hagger stared. “All right, all right,” he said. “You don’t like ’em, but this is a special kind of a dog. You know what kind, I guess?”

  “A white dog,” Friedman said, only interested in that he was waiting for some surprise in the speech of the yegg.

  “A bull terrier,” said Hagger violently. “These here . . . they’re the only dogs worthwhile. These are the kings of the dogs. Like a gent I heard say . . . ‘What will my bull terrier do? He’ll do anything that any other dog’ll do, and then he’ll kill the other dog.’” Hagger laughed. It was a joke that he appreciated greatly.

  But Friedman did not even smile. “Are you killing time?” he asked at length.

  “All right,” said Hagger, shrugging his shoulders. “Only what I really want to tell you is this . . . this dog’ll stick by you to the limit. This dog’ll die for you, Friedman.”

  “He looks more like he’d tear my throat out. But, look here, Hagger, what sort of crazy talk is this? Why should I give a damn about a dog, will you tell me that?”

  “You don’t,” said Hagger slowly as he strove to rally his thoughts and find a new turning point through which he could gain an advantage in this argument. “You don’t. No, you’re a damned intelligent, high type of man. You wouldn’t have been able to run me down, otherwise. And you want a good practical reason, Friedman. Well, I’ll give you one. You take that dog out to civilization, and you put him up for sale, what would you get?”

  “Get? I dunno. Twenty-five dollars from some fool that wanted that kind of a dog.”

  “Yeah?” sneered Hagger. “Twenty-five dollars, you say? Twenty-five dollars!” He laughed hoarsely.

  The jeweler, intrigued, knitted his brows and waited. “Maybe fifty?”

  “Five hundred!” said Hagger fiercely.

  Friedman blinked. “Go on, Hagger,” he said. “You’re trying to put something over on me.”

  “Am I? Am I trying to put something over on you? You know what the best thoroughbred bull terriers fetch, when they’re champions, I suppose?”

  “Is this a champion?” asked Friedman.

  “He is,” lied Hagger with enthusiasm.

  “Champion of what?”

  “Champion bull terrier of the world!” cried Hagger.

  “Well,” said Friedman. “I dunno . . . this sounds like a funny yarn to me.”

  “Funny?” cried Hagger, growing more enthusiastically committed to his prevarications. “Funny? Look here, Friedman, you don’t mean to stand up there and tell me man to man that you really don’t know who this dog is?”

  “How should I know?” asked Friedman.

  “Well, his picture has been in the papers enough,” said Hagger. “He’s had interviews, like a murderer or a movie star, or something like that. He’s had write-ups and pictures taken of him. I’ll tell you who he is. He’s Lambury Rex . . . that’s who he is!”

  This fictitious name had a great effect upon the listener, who displayed a new interest.

  “It seems to me that I’ve heard that name,” he said. “Lambury Rex? I’m pretty sure that I have.”

  “Everybody in the world has,” Hagger assured him dryly. “I said that he was worth five hundred. Why, any first-rate bull terrier is worth that. Five hundred! A man would be a fool to take twenty-five hundred for a dog like this. Think of him taking the first prize . . . finest dog in the show . . . a blue ribbon . . .”

  “Did he do that?”

  “Ain’t I telling you? Say, Friedman, what have I got to gain by telling you all this?”

  “I dunno,” Friedman assured him, “and I see you’re killing time, because what does it matter about the dog?”

  “You poor fool!” shouted Hagger. “You poor sap! I’m offering you this dog to take out of the valley with you. Does that mean anything, you square head?”

  Friedman said nothing for a moment and then growled: “Where do you come off in this?”

  “Listen!” shrieked Hagger. “Why do I have to come off in it? Why? I offer yo
u a dog! Talk sense, Friedman. Here’s something for nothing. Here’s the finest dog in the world . . .”

  Friedman cut in coldly: “And you’re offering him to me?”

  “I see,” Hagger said slowly, nodding. “Why should I give him to you, when you’ve been trailing me, and all that. Well, I’ve got no grudge against you. I soaked you for seven thousand. You soaked me and got it back. We’re all square. But the main thing is this . . . Friedman, don’t you leave this dog behind to starve here in the shack with me.”

  “Maybe he won’t die of starvation,” said Friedman. “Maybe he’ll make a couple of meals for you first. Stewed dog for Hagger?” He laughed cynically, but his laughter died at once, stopped by the expression of unutterable contempt and disgust on the face of the yegg.

  “Anyway,” said Hagger, “that’s the end of your joke. Take him, Friedman. Take him along and make a little fortune out of him. Or keep him and he’ll get you famous.”

  “Look here,” said Friedman. “How could I ever get him through the snow?”

  “You broke a trail to come in,” said Hagger. “You could take him back the same way. He’s game. He’ll work hard. And . . . and you could sort of give him a hand now and then, old fellow.”

  Hagger was pleading with all his might. He had cast pretense aside, and his heart was in his voice.

  “It beats me,” Friedman said suddenly. He stepped back inside the shack. He sat down in one of the chairs and regarded the yegg closely—his twisted foot and his tormented face. “It beats me,” repeated Friedman. “You, Hagger, you’re gonna die, man. You’re gonna die, and yet you’re talking about a dog.”

  “Why,” said Hagger, controlling his temper, “will it do me any good to see a dog starve at the same time that I do?”

  “Might be company for you, I should think . . . since you like the cur such a lot.”

  “Cur?” said Hagger with a terrible frown. “Damn you, Friedman, you don’t deserve to have a chance at the saving of a fine animal like him, a king of dogs like Linkton Rex . . .”

  “A minute ago,” cut in the jeweler sharply, “you called him Lambury Rex.”

  “Did I? A slip of the tongue. You take me, when I get excited, I never get the words right and . . .”

  “Sure you don’t.” The visitor grinned, wide and slow. “I don’t believe this dog is worth anything. You’re just trying to make a fool of me. It’d make you die happier, if you could laugh at me a couple of times while you’re lying here. Ain’t that the truth?”

  The yegg suddenly lay back, his head supported by the wall of the shack. Now his strength had gone from him for the moment, and he could only look at Friedman with dull, lackluster eyes.

  Vaguely he observed the differences between himself and the jeweler, measured the narrow shoulders, the slender hands and feet, the long, lean face, now hollowed and stricken by the privations through which the man had passed. Weak physically, he might be, but not of feeble character. He had sufficient force and determination to trail and catch up with Hagger himself—once Hagger had been detained by the dog.

  “I tell you,” said Hagger, “it’s fate that you should have the terrier. If it hadn’t been for him, you never would have caught me, Friedman.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” said Friedman. His head was thrust out, like the head of a bird of prey. “I would have followed you around the world.”

  “Until you were bashed in the face!” said the yegg savagely.

  “No, it was the will of God,” said the jeweler, and piously he looked up.

  Hagger gaped. “God?” he said. “What has God got to do with you and me?”

  “He stopped you with a dog, and then He made me take you with an empty gun. It’s all the work of God.”

  “Well,” said Hagger slowly, “I dunno. I don’t seem to think. Only I know this . . . if you ain’t gonna take the dog away with you, then get out of here and leave me alone, will you? Because I hate the sight of your ugly mug, Friedman. I hate you, you swine!”

  Friedman, on his clumsy snowshoes, backed to the door and hesitated. Twice he laid his hand upon the knob. Twice he hesitated and turned back once more. Then with sudden violence he sat down in the chair again.

  Hagger screamed in hysterical hatred and rage: “Are you gonna get out of here, Friedman? If I get my hands on you, you’ll die before me, you and your cash! Friedman . . . what are you doing?”

  The question was asked in a changed voice, for Friedman was unlacing the lashes of his own snowshoes.

  IX

  “What d’ya mean? What d’ya mean?” cried the yegg. “What’re you taking off your snowshoes for?”

  Friedman stood up, freed from the cumbersome shoes, and eyed Hagger without kindness. “Lemme see your foot,” he said, “and stop your yapping, will you?”

  To the bewilderment of Hagger, Friedman actually trusted himself within gripping distance of his powerful, blunt-fingered hands that could have fastened upon him as fatally as the talons of an eagle. Regardless, apparently, of this danger, Friedman kneeled at his feet and began to cut the shoe with a sharp knife, slicing the leather with the greatest care, until the shoe came away in two parts. The sock followed. Then he looked at the foot. It was misshapen, purple-streaked, and the instant the pressure of the shoe was removed, it began to swell.

  Friedman regarded it with a shudder, and then looked up at the set face of Hagger. “I dunno . . . I dunno . . .” said Friedman, overwhelmed. “You talked dog to me, with this going on all the time . . . I dunno . . .” He seemed quite shaken. “Wait a minute,” he said.

  Now that the shoe was off, instead of giving Hagger relief, the pain became tenfold worse, and the inflamed flesh, as it swelled, seemed to be torn with hot tongs. He lay half sick with pain.

  Now Friedman poured water into a pot and made the fire rage until the water was steaming briskly. After that, he managed hot compresses for the swelling ankle, and alternately chilled the hurt with snow and then bathed it in hot water, until the pain of the remedy seemed far greater than the pain of the hurt.

  Then Friedman desisted and sat back to consider his task. The moment he paused, he was aware of the howling of the wind. Going to the door, he pushed it open a crack and saw that the storm was coming over the ravine blacker than ever, with the wind piling the snow higher and higher. He slammed the door, then turned with a scowl on his companion.

  “Well,” said Hagger, “I know how you feel. I feel the same way. It’s hell . . . and believe me, Friedman, you never would’ve caught me, if it hadn’t been for the dog.”

  “If it hadn’t been for the dog, I’d’ve been out of the valley before the storm came,” declared Friedman bitterly. “It’s got the evil eye, that cur.” He scowled on the white bull terrier, then he sat down as before, like an evil bird, his back humped, his thin head thrust out before him. “What do you eat?”

  “Snow,” said the yegg bitterly.

  “Well?”

  “There’s deer around here . . . sloughs of ’em. I potted one last night, and it was the side jump I took to see what come of it that done me in like this.” He added: “I got an idea that maybe you could get a deer for us, Friedman. For yourself and me and the dog is what I mean, y’understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Well?”

  “I couldn’t hit a deer.”

  “You can when you have to. If you couldn’t hit a deer, how can you expect to hit me?”

  “I know. That’s bad. Well,” agreed Friedman, “I’ll go out and call the deer, Hagger. Maybe I could hit it, then.” Armed with Hagger’s automatic, Friedman went to the door. “Maybe the dog could go along?” he suggested, and snapped his fingers and clucked invitingly.

  The answer of the terrier was a snarl.

  “Seems to hate me,” said Friedman. “Why?”

  “I dunno, just a streak of meanness in him, most likely.”

  The touch of sarcasm in this answer made Friedman draw his thick brows together. However, the next instant
he had turned again to the door.

  “Head for the forest right down the ravine and bear left of that,” said Hagger. “That’s where I found a deer . . . maybe you’ll find ’em using the same place for cover.”

  Friedman disappeared.

  His sulkiness filled Hagger with dismay, and, shaking his fist at the dog, he exclaimed: “You’re scratching the ground right from under your feet, pup! We never may see his ugly mug again!”

  Meantime, he was much more comfortable. The rigorous and patient treatment given to his injured ankle had been most effective. Now blood circulated rapidly in the ankle—there was no quicker way in which it could be healed.

  The dog, undismayed by the shaken hand, pricked his ears and crowded close to his master, and Hagger lay back, comforted, smiling. He let an arm fall loosely across the back of Lambury Rex and chuckled. How long would it take Friedman to come to this intimate understanding with the animal?

  Indeed, Friedman might never enter that door again. Hagger himself in such a case never would come back to the cabin, housing as it did only a man and a dog. The wind still was strong, and the snow still fell. Again and again a crashing against the walls of the cabin told how the bits of flying snow crust were cutting at the wood. They would cut at a man equally well, and no one but a sentimental fool, Hagger told himself, would have done anything but turn his back to that wind and let it help him out of the valley.

  In the course of the next hour he guessed that Friedman never would come back, and from that moment the roar of the storm outside and the whistling of the wind in the chimney had a different meaning. They were the dirges for his death. Calmly he began to make up his mind. As soon as the wood that now filled the stove had burned down, he would kill himself and the dog. It was the only manly thing to do, for, otherwise, there was only slow starvation before them.

  Suddenly the door was pushed open, and Friedman stood in the entrance. In the faint dusk that dimly illumined the storm outside he seemed a strong spirit striding through confusion. On his back there was a sight almost as welcome as himself, a shoulder of venison of ample proportions.

  “It was the deer you shot at,” said Friedman, putting down his burden and grinning as the dog came to sniff at it. “I found it lying just about where you must have put your slug into it. It was almost buried in the snow.”