by Max Brand
CHAPTER 2
Young Andrew Lanning lived in the small, hushed world of his ownthoughts. He neither loved nor hated the people around him. He simplydid not see them. His mother--it was from her that he inherited thesofter qualities of his mind and his face--had left him a little stockof books. And though Andy was by no means a reader, he had at leastpicked up that dangerous equipment of fiction which enables a man tododge reality and live in his dreams. Those dreams had as little aspossible to do with the daily routine of his life, and certainly thehandling of guns, which his uncle enforced upon him, was never a part ofthe future as Andy saw it.
It was now the late afternoon; the alkali dust in the road was still ina white light, but the temperature in the shop had dropped severaldegrees. The horse of Buck Heath was shod, and Andy was laying his toolsaway for the day when he heard the noise of an automobile with openmuffler coming down the street. He stepped to the door to watch, and atthat moment a big blue car trundled into view around the bend of theroad. The rear wheels struck a slide of sand and dust, and skidded; agirl cried out; then the big machine gathered out of the cloud of dust,and came toward Andy with a crackling like musketry, and it was plainthat it would leap through Martindale and away into the country beyondat a bound. Andy could see now that it was a roadster, low-hung,ponderous, to keep the road.
Pat Gregg was leaving the saloon; he was on his horse, but he sat thesaddle slanting, and his head was turned to give the farewell word toseveral figures who bulged through the door of the saloon. For thatreason, as well as because of the fumes in his brain, he did not hearthe coming of the automobile. His friends from the saloon yelled awarning, but he evidently thought it some jest, as he waved his handwith a grin of appreciation. The big car was coming, rocking with itsspeed; it was too late now to stop that flying mass of metal.
But the driver made the effort. His brakes shrieked, and still the carshot on with scarcely abated speed, for the wheels could secure nopurchase in the thin sand of the roadway. Andy's heart stood still insympathy as he saw the face of the driver whiten and grow tense. CharlesMerchant, the son of rich John Merchant, was behind the wheel. DrunkenPat Gregg had taken the warning at last. He turned in the saddle anddrove home his spurs, but even that had been too late had not CharlesMerchant taken the big chance. At the risk of overturning the machine heveered it sharply to the left. It hung for a moment on two wheels. Andycould count a dozen heartbeats while the plunging car edged around thehorse and shoved between Pat and the wall of the house--inches on eitherside. Yet it must have taken not more than the split part of a second.
There was a shout of applause from the saloon; Pat Gregg sat his horse,mouth open, his face pale, and then the heavy car rolled past theblacksmith shop. Andy, breathing freely and cold to his finger tips, sawyoung Charlie Merchant relax to a flickering smile as the girl besidehim caught his arm and spoke to him.
And then Andy saw her for the first time.
In the brief instant as the machine moved by, he printed the picture tobe seen again when she was gone. What was the hair? Red bronze, andfiery where the sun caught at it, and the eyes were gray, or blue, or agray-green. But colors did not matter. It was all in her smile and theturning of her eyes, which were very wide open. She spoke, and it was inthe sound of her voice. "Wait!" shouted Andy Lanning as he made a steptoward them. But the car went on, rocking over the bumps and the exhaustroaring. Andy became aware that his shout had been only a dry whisper.Besides, what would he say if they did stop?
And then the girl turned sharply about and looked back, not at the horsethey had so nearly struck, but at Andy standing in the door of his shop.He felt sure that she would remember his face; her smile had gone outwhile she stared, and now she turned her head suddenly to the front.Once more the sun flashed on her hair; then the machine disappeared. Ina moment even the roar of the engine was lost, but it came back again,flung in echoes from some hillside.
Not until all was silent, and the boys from the saloon were shakinghands with Pat and laughing at him, did Andy turn back into theblacksmith shop. He sat down on the anvil with his heart beating, andbegan to recall the picture. Yes, it was all in the smile and the glintof the eyes. And something else--how should he say it?--of the lightshining through her.
He stood up presently, closed the shop, and went home. Afterward hisuncle came in a fierce humor, slamming the door. He found Andy sittingin front of the table staring down at his hands.
"Buck Heath has been talkin' about you," said Jasper.
Andy raised his head. "Look at 'em!" he said as he spread out his hands."I been scrubbin' 'em with sand soap for half an hour, and the oil andthe iron dust won't come out."
Uncle Jasper, who had a quiet voice and gentle manners, now stood rigid."I wisht to God that some iron dust would work its way into yoursoul," he said.
"What are you talking about?"
"Nothin' you could understand; you need a mother to explain things toyou."
The other got up, white about the mouth. "I think I do," said Andy."I'm sick inside."
"Where's supper?" demanded Jasper.
Andy sat down again, and began to consider his hands once more. "There'ssomething wrong--something dirty about this life."
"Is there?" Uncle Jasper leaned across the table, and once again the oldghost of a hope was flickering behind his eyes. "Who's been talkin'to you?"
He thought of the grinning men of the saloon; the hidden words. Somebodymight have gone out and insulted Andy to his face for the first time.There had been plenty of insults in the past two years, since Andy couldpretend to manhood, but none that might not be overlooked. "Who's beentalkin' to you?" repeated Uncle Jasper. "Confound that Buck Heath! He'sthe cause of all the trouble!"
"Buck Heath! Who's he? Oh, I remember. What's he got to do with therotten life we lead here, Uncle Jas?"
"So?" said the old man slowly. "He ain't nothin'?"
"Bah!" remarked Andy. "You want me to go out and fight him? I won't. Igot no love for fighting. Makes me sort of sickish."
"Heaven above!" the older man invoked. "Ain't you got shame? My blood inyou, too!"
"Don't talk like that," said Andy with a certain amount of reserve whichwas not natural to him. "You bother me. I want a little silence and achance to think things out. There's something wrong in the way I'vebeen living."
"You're the last to find it out."
"If you keep this up I'm going to take a walk so I can have quiet."
"You'll sit there, son, till I'm through with you. Now, Andrew, theseyears I've been savin' up for this moment when I was sure that--"
To his unutterable astonishment Andy rose and stepped between him andthe door. "Uncle Jas," he said, "mostly I got a lot of respect for youand what you think. Tonight I don't care what you or anybody else has tosay. Just one thing matters. I feel I've been living in the dirt. I'mgoing out and see what's wrong. Good night."
