by Max Brand
CHAPTER 5
The yell with which Andrew Lanning had shot out of Martindale, and whichonly Jasper Lanning had recognized, was no more startling to the men ofthe village than it was to Andrew himself. Mingled in an ecstasy ofemotion, there was fear, hate, anger, grief, and the joy of freedom inthat cry; but it froze the marrow of Andy's bones to hear it.
Fear, most of all, was driving him out of the village. Just as he rushedaround the bend of the street he looked back to the crowd of mentumbling upon their horses; every hand there would be against him. Heknew them. He ran over their names and faces. Thirty seconds before hewould rather have walked on the edge of a cliff than rouse the anger ofa single one among these men, and now, by one blow, he had started themall after him.
Once, as he topped the rise, the folly of attempting to escape fromtheir long-proved cunning made him draw in on the rein a little; but thehorse only snorted and shook his head and burst into a greater effort ofspeed. After all, the horse was right, Andy decided. For the moment hethought of turning and facing that crowd, but he remembered storiesabout men who had killed the enemy in fair fight, but who had been triedby a mob jury and strung to the nearest tree.
Any sane man might have told Andrew that those days were some distancein the past, but Andy made no distinction between periods. He knew themost exciting events which had happened around Martindale in the pastfifty years, and he saw no difference between one generation and thenext. Was not Uncle Jasper himself continually dinning into his earsthe terrible possibilities of trouble? Was not Uncle Jasper, even in hisold age, religiously exacting in his hour or more of gun exercise eachday? Did not Uncle Jasper force Andy to go through the same maneuversfor twice as long between sunset and sunrise? And why all these endlesspreparations if these men of Martindale were not killers?
It might seem strange that Andy could have lived so long among thesepeople without knowing them better, but he had taken from his mother alittle strain of shyness. He never opened his mind to other people, andthey really never opened themselves to Andy Lanning. The men ofMartindale wore guns, and the conclusion had always been apparent toAndy that they wore guns because, in a pinch, they were ready tokill men.
To Andy Lanning, as fear whipped him north out of Martindale, thereseemed no pleasure or safety in the world except in the speed of hishorse and the whir of the air against his face. When that speed falteredhe went to the quirt. He spurred mercilessly. Yet he had ridden hishorse out to a stagger before he reached old Sullivan's place. Only whenthe forefeet of the mustang began to pound did he realize his folly inexhausting his horse when the race was hardly begun. He went into theranch house to get a new mount.
When he was calmer, he realized that he had played his partwell--astonishingly well. His voice had not quivered. His eye had metthat of the old rancher every moment. His hand had been as steadyas iron.
Something that Uncle Jasper had said recurred to him, something aboutiron dust. He felt now that there was indeed a strong, hard metal inhim; fear had put it there--or was it fear itself? Was it not fear thathad brought the gun into his hand so easily when the crowd rushed himfrom the door of the saloon? Was it not fear that had made his nervesso rocklike as he faced that crowd and made his get-away?
He was on one side now, and the world was on the other. He turned in thesaddle and probed the thick blackness with his eyes; then he sent thepinto on at an easy, ground-devouring lope. Sometimes, as the ravinenarrowed, the close walls made the creaking of the saddle leather loudin his ears, and the puffing of the pinto, who hated work; sometimes thehoofs scuffed noisily through gravel; but usually the soft sand muffledthe noise of hoofs, and there was a silence as dense as the night aroundAndy Lanning.
Thinking back, he felt that it was all absurd and dreamlike. He hadnever hurt a man before in his life. Martindale knew it. Why could henot go back, face them, give up his gun, wait for the law to speak?
But when he thought of this he thought a moment later of a crowd rushingtheir horses through the night, leaning over their saddles to break thewind more easily, and all ready to kill on this man trail.
All at once a great hate welled up in him, and he went on with grittingteeth.
It was out of this anger, oddly enough, that the memory of the girl cameto him. She was like the falling of this starlight, pure, aloof, andstrange and gentle. It seemed to Andrew Lanning that the instant ofseeing her outweighed the rest of his life, but he would never see heragain. How could he see her, and if he saw her, what would he say toher? It would not be necessary to speak. One glance would be enough.
But, sooner or later, Bill Dozier would reach him. Why not sooner? Whynot take the chance, ride to John Merchant's ranch, break a way to theroom where the girl slept this night, smash open the door, look at heronce, and then fight his way out?
He swung out of the ravine and headed across the hills. From the crestthe valley was broad and dark below him, and on the opposite side thehills were blacker still. He let the pinto go down the steep slope at awalk, for there is nothing like a fast pace downhill to tear the heartout of a horse. Besides, it came to him after he started, were not themen of Bill Dozier apt to miss this sudden swinging of the trail?
In the floor of the valley he sent the pinto again into the stretchingcanter, found the road, and went on with a thin cloud of the alkali dustabout him until the house rose suddenly out of the ground, a black masswhose gables seemed to look at him like so many heads above thetree-tops.
