Iron Dust

by Max Brand

  These strange fellows had not asked his name, and neither had they introduced themselves, but from their table talk he gathered that the redhead was named Jeff, the funereal man with the bony face was Larry, the brown-haired one was Joe, and he of the scar and the smile was Henry. It occurred to Andy as odd that such rough-boon companions had not shortened that name for convenience.

  They played with the most intense concentration. As the night deepened and the windows became black slabs, Joe brought another candle and reinforced this light by hanging a lantern from a nail on the wall. This illuminated the entire room, but in a partial and dismal manner. The game went on. They were playing for high stakes; Andrew Lanning had never seen so much cash assembled at one time. They had stacks of unmistakable yellow gold before them—actually stacks. He counted fifty $10 gold pieces before Jeff; Henry lost steadily, but replaced his losses from an apparently inexhaustible purse; Joe had about the same amount as Jeff, but the winner was Larry. That skull-faced gentleman was fairly barricaded behind heaps of money. Andy estimated swiftly that there must be well over $2,000 in those stacks.

  He finished his supper, and having taken the tin cup and plate out into the next room and cleaned them, he had no sooner come back to the door, on the verge of bidding them good night, than Henry invited him to sit down and take a hand.

  Chapter Twelve

  He had never studied any men as he had watched these men at cards. Andrew Lanning had spent most of his life quite indifferent to the people around him, but now it was necessary to make quick judgments and sure. He had to read unreadable faces. He had to guess motives. He had to sense the coming of danger before it showed its face. And watching them with such intentness, he understood that at least three of them were cheating at every opportunity. Henry, alone, was playing a square game; as for the heavy winner, Larry, Andrew had reason to believe that he was adroitly palming an ace now and again—luck ran too consistently his way. For his own part, he was no card expert, and he smiled as Henry made his offer.

  “I’ve got eleven dollars and fifty cents in my pocket,” he said frankly. “I won’t sit in at that game.”

  “Then the game is three-handed,” said Henry as he got up from his chair. “I’ve fed you boys enough,” he continued in his soft voice. “I know a three-handed game is no good, but I’m through. Unless you’ll try a round or two with ’em, stranger? They’ve made enough money. Maybe they’ll play for silver for the fun of it, eh, boys?”

  There was no enthusiastic assent. The three looked gravely at a victim with $11.50, the chair of big Jeff creaking noisily as he turned. “Sit in,” said Jeff. He made a brief gesture, like one wiping an obstacle out of the way.

  “All right.” Andy nodded, for the thing began to excite him. He turned to Henry. “Suppose you deal for us?”

  The scar on Henry’s face changed color, and his habitual smile broadened. “Well!” exclaimed Larry. “Maybe the gent don’t like the way we been runnin’ this game in other ways. Maybe he’s got a few more suggestions to make, sittin’ in? I like to be obligin’.” He grinned, and the effect was ghastly.

  “Thanks,” said Andy. “That lets me out as far as suggestions go.” He paused with his hand on the back of the chair, and something told him that Larry would as soon run a knife into him as take a drink of water. The eyes burned up at him out of the shadow of the brows, but Andy, although his heart leaped, made himself meet the stare. Suddenly it wavered, and only then would Andy sit down.

  Henry had drawn up another chair. “That idea looks good to me,” he said. “I think I shall deal.” And forthwith, as one who may not be resisted, he swept up the cards and began to shuffle.

  The others at once lost interest. Each of them nonchalantly produced silver, and they began to play negligently, careless of their stakes.

  But to Andy, who had only played for money half a dozen times before, this was desperately earnest. He kept to a conservative game, and slowly but surely he saw his silver being converted into gold. Only Larry noticed his gains—the others were indifferent to it, but the skull-faced man tightened his lips as he saw. Suddenly he began betting in gold, $10 for each card he drew. The others were out of that hand. Andy, breathless, for he had an ace down, saw a three and a two fall—took the long chance, and with the luck behind him, watched a five spot flutter down to join his draw. Yet Larry, taking the same draw, was not busted. He had a pair of deuces and a four. There he stuck, and it stood to reason that he could not win. Yet he bet recklessly, raising Andy twice, until the latter had no more money on the table to call a higher bet. The showdown revealed an ace under cover for Larry, also. Now he leaned across the table, smiling at Andrew.

  “I like the hand you show,” said Larry, “but I don’t like your face behind it, my friend.” His smile went out—his hand jerked back—and then the lean, small hand of Henry shot out and fastened on the tall man’s wrist.

  “You skunk,” said Henry. “D’you want to get the kid for that beggarly mess? Bah!”

  Andy, colorless, his blood cold, brushed aside the arm of the intercessor. “Partner,” he said, leaning a little forward in turn and thereby making his holster swing clear of the seat of his chair, “partner, I don’t mind your words, but I don’t like the way you say ’em.”

  When he began to speak, his voice was shaken; before he had finished, his tones rang, and he felt once more that overwhelming desire that was like the impulse to fling himself from a height. He had felt it before, when he watched the posse retreat with the body of Bill Dozier. He felt it now—a vast hunger, an almost-blinding eagerness to see Larry make an incriminating move with his bony, hovering, right hand. The bright eyes burned at him for a moment longer out of the shadow. Then, again, they wavered and turned away.

  Andy knew that the fellow had no more stomach for a fight. Shame might have made him go through with the thing he started, however, had not Henry cut in again and given Larry a chance to withdraw gracefully.

  “The kid’s called your bluff, Larry,” he said. “And the rest of us don’t need to see you pull any target practice. Shake hands with the kid, will you, and tell him you were joking.”

  Larry settled back in his chair with a grunt, and Henry, without a word, tipped back in his chair and kicked the table. Andy, beside him, saw the move start, and he had just time to scoop his own winnings, including that last rich bet, off the tabletop and into his pocket. As for the rest of the coin, it slid with a noisy jangle to the floor, and it turned the other three men into scrambling madmen. They scratched and clawed at the money, cursing volubly, and Andy, stepping back out of the fracas, saw the scar-faced man watching with a smile of contempt. There was a snarl. Jeff had Joe by the throat, and Joe was reaching for his gun. Henry moved forward to interfere once more, but this time he was not needed. A clear whistling sounded outside the house, and a moment later the door was kicked open. A man came in with his saddle on his hip.

  His appearance converted the threatening fight into a scene of jovial good nature. The money was swept up at random, as though none of them had the slightest care what became of it. Coin appeared to be made cheap by the appearance of this fifth man.

  “Havin’ one of your little parties, eh?” said the stranger. “What started it?”

  “He did, Scottie,” answered Larry, and stretching out an arm of enormous length, he pointed at Andrew.

  Again it required the intervention of Henry to explain matters, and Scottie, with his hands on his hips, turned and surveyed Andrew with considering eyes. He was much different from the rest. Whereas they had, one and all, a peculiarly unhealthy effect upon Andy, this newcomer was a cheery fellow, with an eye as clear as crystal and color in his tanned cheeks. He had one of those long faces that invariably imply shrewdness, and he canted his head to one side while he watched Andy.

  “You’re him that put the pinto in the corral, I guess?” he said.

  Andy nodded.

  There was no further mention of the troubles of that card ga
me. Jeff and Joe and Larry were instantly busied about the kitchen and in arranging the table, while Scottie, after the manner of a guest, bustled about and accomplished little.

  But the eye of Andrew, then and thereafter, whenever he was near the five, kept steadily upon the scar-faced man. Henry had tilted his chair back against the wall. The night had come on chill, with a rising wind that hummed through the cracks of the ill-built wall and tossed the flame in the throat of the chimney. Henry draped a coat like a cloak around his shoulders and buried his chin in his hands, separated from the others by a vast gulf. Presently Scottie was sitting at the table. The others were gathered around him in expectant attitudes. One or two unavoidable side glances flashed across at Andy, and he knew that he was not wanted, but he was too much fascinated by this strange society to leave.

  Redheaded Jeff, his burly face twisting with anxiety, asked: “And did you see her, man?”

  “Sure did I,” Scottie answered. “She’s doin’ fine. Nothin’ to be asked better. She had some messages to send you, lad.” He smiled at Jeff, who sighed. Then he turned to Larry; “I sent the money,” he said, and the skull-faced man nodded. To Joe: “The kid weighs eighty-seven pounds. Looks more a ringer for you every day.”

  To each of them, one important message, except for Henry.

  “What else is new?” they exclaimed in one voice.

  “Oh, about a million things. Let me get some of this ham into my face, and then I’ll talk. I’ve got a batch of newspapers yonder. There’s a gold rush on up to Tolliver’s Creek.”

  Andy blinked, for that news was at least four weeks old. But now came a tide of other news, and almost all of it was stale stuff to him. But the men drank it in—all except Henry, silent in his corner. He was relaxed, as if he slept. “But the most news is about the killing of Bill Dozier.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bill!” grunted redheaded Jeff. “Well, I’ll be hung. There’s one good deed done. He was overdue, anyways.”

  Andy, waiting breathlessly, watched lest the eye of the narrator should swing toward him for the least part of a second. But Scottie seemed utterly oblivious of the fact that he sat in the same room with the murderer.

  “Well, he got it,” said Scottie. “And he didn’t get it from behind. Seems there was a young gent in Martindale… all you boys know old Jasper Lanning?” There was an answering chorus. “Well, he’s got a nephew, Andrew Lanning. This kid was sort of a bashful kind, they say. But yesterday he up and bashed a fellow in the jaw, and the man went down. Whacked his head on a rock, and young Lanning thought his man was dead. So he holds off the crowd with a gun, hops a horse, and beats it.”

  “Pretty, pretty,” murmured Larry. “But what’s that got to do with that hyena Bill Dozier?”

  “I don’t get it all hitched up straight. Most of the news come from Martindale to town by telephone. Seems this young Lanning was follered by Bill Dozier. He was always a hound for a job like that, eh?”

  There was a growl of assent.

  “He handpicked five rough ones and went after Lanning. Chased him all night. Landed at John Merchant’s place. The kid had dropped in there to call on a girl. Can you beat that for cold nerve, him figuring that he’d killed a man, and Bill Dozier and five more on his trail to bring him back to wait and see whether the buck he dropped lived or died… and then to slide over and call on a lady? No, you can’t raise that.”

  But the tidings were gradually breaking in upon the mind of Andrew Lanning. Buck Heath had not been dead; the pursuit was simply to bring him back on some charge of assault; now… Bill Dozier… The head of Andrew swam.

  “Seems he didn’t know her, either. Just paid a call around about dawn and then rode on. Oh, that’s the frosty nerve for you. Bill comes along a little later on the trail, gets new horses from Merchant, and runs down Lanning early this morning. Runs him down, and then Lanning turns in the saddle and drills Bill through the head at five hundred yards.”

  Henry came to life. “How far?” he said.

  “That’s what they got over the telephone,” said Scottie apologetically.

  “Then the news got to Hal Dozier from Merchant’s house. Hal hops on the wire and gets in touch with the governor, and in about ten seconds, they make this Lanning kid an outlaw and stick a price on his head… five thousand, I think, and they say Merchant is behind it. The telephone was buzzing with it when I left town, and most of the boys were oiling up their gats and getting ready to make a play. Pretty easy money, eh, for putting the rollers under a kid?”

  Andrew Lanning muttered aloud: “An outlaw.”

  “Not the first time Bill Dozier has done it,” said Henry calmly. “That’s an old maneuver of his… to hound a man from a little crime to a big one.”

  The throat of Andrew was dry. “Did you get a description of young Lanning?” he asked.

  “Sure.” Scottie nodded. “Twenty-three years old, about five feet ten, black hair and black eyes, good-looking, big shoulders, quiet spoken.”

  Andrew made a gesture and looked carelessly out the back window, but from the corner of his eyes, he was noting the five men. Not a line of their expressions escaped him. He was seeing, literally, with eyes in the back of his head, and if by the interchange of one knowing glance, or by a significant silence, even, these fellows had indicated that they remotely guessed his identity, he would have been on his feet like a tiger, gun in hand, and backing for the door. $5,000! What would not one of these men do for that sum? And yet, money seemed plentiful among them. But $5,000! A man could buy twenty fine horses for that price; he could buy a store and set up in business for that price. A struggling family could lift its mortgage and breathe freely for a smaller sum than that. And of his few friends, what one was there who would shelter him or aid him? What human being in the world would prefer him to $5,000?

  All of this ran through the brain of Andy in the second in which he turned his head toward the window. He had been keyed to the breaking point before, but his alertness was now trebled, and like a sensitive barometer, he felt the danger of Larry, the brute strength of Jeff, the cunning of Henry, the grave poise of Joe, to say nothing of Scottie—an unknown force.

  But Scottie was running on in his talk; he was telling of how he met the storekeeper in town; he was naming everything he saw. These fellows seemed to hunger for the minutest news of men. They poured forth a chorus of questions about a new house that was being built; they broke into admiring laughter when Scottie told of his victorious tilt of jesting with the storekeeper’s daughter; even Henry came out of his patient gloom long enough to smile at this, and the rest were like children. Larry was laughing so heartily that his eyes began to twinkle. He even invited Andrew in on the mirth.

  At this point Andy stood up and stretched elaborately—but in stretching he put his arms behind him and stretched them down rather than up, so that his hands were never far from his hips.

  “I’ll be turning in,” said Andy, and stepping back to the door so that his face would be toward them until the last instant of his exit, he waved good night.

  There was a brief shifting of eyes toward him and a grunt from Jeff; that was all. Then the eye of everyone reverted to Scottie. But the latter broke off his narrative.

  “Ain’t you sleepin’ in?” he asked. “We could fix you a bunk upstairs, I guess?”

  Once more the glance of Andrew flashed from face to face, and yet he did not allow his eyes actually to stir from Scottie. He was waiting for some significant change of expression, but that change did not come. They glanced at him again, but impatiently. And then he saw the first suspicious thing. Scottie was looking straight at Henry in the corner, as though waiting for a direction, and from the corner of his eye, Andrew was aware that Henry had nodded ever so slightly.

  “Here’s something you might be interested to know,” said Scottie. “This young Lanning was riding a pinto horse.” He added, while Andrew stood rooted to the spot: “You seemed sort of interested in the description. I allowe
d maybe you’d try your hand at findin’ him.”

  Andy understood perfectly that he was known, and with his left hand frozen against the knob of the door, he flattened his shoulders against the wall and stood ready for the draw. In the crisis, at the first hostile move, he decided that he would dive straight for the table, low. It would tumble the room into darkness as the candles fell—a semidarkness, for there would be a sputtering lantern still.

  Then he would fight for his life. And looking at the others, he saw that they were changed, indeed. They were all facing him, and their faces were alive with interest, yet they made no hostile move. No doubt they awaited the signal of Henry; there was the greatest danger, and now Henry stood up.

  His first word was a throwing down of disguises. “Mister Lanning,” he said, “I think this is a time for introductions.”

  That cold exultation, that wild impulse to throw himself into the arms of danger, was sweeping over Andrew. Not a nerve in his body quivered, but every one of them seemed to be tightened to the breaking point. He was ready to move like lightning—like intelligent lightning, choosing its targets. He made no gesture toward his gun, though his fingers were curling, but he said; “Friends, I’ve got you all in my eye. I’m going to open this door and go out. No harm to any of you. But if you try to stop me, it means trouble.”

  Just a split second of suspense. If a foot stirred or a hand raised, the curling hand of Andrew’s would jerk up and bring out a revolver, and every man in the room knew it.

  Then the voice of Henry: “You’d plan on fighting us all?”

  “Take my bridle off the wall,” said Andrew, looking straight before him at no face, thereby enabled to see everything, just as a boxer looks in the eye of his opponent and thereby sees every move of his gloves. “Take my bridle off the wall, you, Jeff, and throw it at my feet.”