Iron Dust

by Max Brand

  Larry la Roche

  Blankets and slicker, money, a horse! A flask of whiskey stood on another slip of the paper. And the writing on this was much more legible.

  Here’s a friend in need. When you come to a pinch, use it. And when you come to a bigger pinch send word to your friend,

  Scottie Macdougal

  Andrew picked it up, set it down again, and smiled.

  On the fur coat there was a fifth tag. Not one of the five, then, had forgotten him.

  Its comin on cold, partner. Take this coat and welcome. When the snows get on the mountains, if you aint out of the desert put on this coat and think of your partner,

  Joe Clune

  P. S.—I seen you first, and I have first call on you over the rest of these gents, and you can figure that you have first call on me.

  J.C.

  When he had read all these little letters, when he had gathered his loot before him, Andrew lifted his head and could have burst into song. A tenderness for all men was surging up in him. This much thieves and murderers had done for him; what would the good men of the world do?

  He went into the kitchen. They had forgotten nothing. There was a quantity of chuck—flour, bacon, salt, coffee, a frying pan, a cup, a canteen. And this inscription was on it: TO ANDY FROM THE BOYS

  It brought the tears into his eyes and a lump in his throat. He cast open the back door, and standing in the little pasture, he saw only one horse remaining. It was a fine, young chestnut gelding with a Roman nose and long, mulish ears. His head was not beautiful to see from any angle, but Andrew saw only the long, powerful, sloping shoulders; the long neck, burdened by no spare flesh; the legs fine-drawn as hammered bronze, and appearing fully as strong. Every detail of the body spelled speed, and speed meant safety. From the famous gray stallion of Hal Dozier, this gelding could never escape, Andrew knew, but the chestnut could undoubtedly distance any posse that had no greater speed than the pace of its slowest horse. And he saw with pleasure, too, the deep chest and the belly not too finely drawn. That chest meant staying powers, and that stomach meant a horse that would not be “ganted” in a few days of hard work.

  What wonder, then, that Andrew began to see the world through a bright mist? What wonder that, when he had finished his breakfast, he sang while he roped the chestnut, built the pack behind the saddle, and filled the saddlebags? When he was in the saddle, the gelding took at once the cattle path, with a long and easy canter that did the heart of the young rider good.

  He gave the chestnut a mile of that pace. Then he shook him out into a smart gallop, and then he sent him into a headlong racing pace for a quarter of a mile. That done, he reined in the horse to a lope again, and leaning far over, he listened. The breath of the gelding came in deep puffs, but it whistled down as cleanly as if the horse had just cantered across the pasture.

  With his head cleared by sleep, his muscles and nerves relaxed, his heart made strong by the gifts of the outlaws, Andrew began to plan his escape with more calm deliberation than before.

  If what Scottie had heard was true, and he had been proclaimed an outlaw, it would still be some time before the state could rush the posters from the printing press and distribute them through the countryside—the printed posters announcing the size of the reward and containing a minute description of Andrew Lanning—height, weight, color of eyes and hair. And in the interval before those posters came out, Andy must break out of the mountain desert and lose himself among the towns beyond the hills. There he could start to work, not as a blacksmith but as a carpenter, and drift steadily east with his new profession of a builder, until he was lost in the multitude of some great city. And after that it would be a long road indeed—but after that, there was the back trail to Anne Withero. And no matter how long, she had promised that she would never forget.

  The first goal, then, was the big-blue cloud on the northern horizon—a good week’s journey ahead of him—the Little Canover Mountains. Among the foothills lay the cordon of small towns that it would be his chief difficulty to pass. For if the printed notices describing him were circulated among them, the countryside would be up in arms, prepared to intercept his flight. Otherwise, there would be nothing but telephoned and telegraphed descriptions of him, which at best, could only come to the ears of a few, and these few would be necessarily put out by the slightest difference between him and the description. Such a vital difference, for instance, as the fact that he now rode a chestnut, while the instructions called for a man on a pinto.

  Moreover, it was by no means certain that Hal Dozier, great trailer though he was, would know that the fugitive was making for the northern mountains. With all these things in mind, in spite of the pessimism of Henry Allister, Andrew felt that he had far more than a fighting chance to break out of the mountain desert and into the comparative safety of the crowded country beyond.

  He made one mistake in the beginning. He pushed the chestnut too hard the first and second days, because the blue cloud of the Little Canovers did not grow clearer, and when the atmosphere thickened toward the evening, they entirely disappeared, so that on the third day he was forced to give the gelding his head and go at a jarring trot most of the day. On the fourth and fifth days, however, he had the reward for his caution. The chestnut’s ribs were beginning to show painfully, but he kept doggedly at his work with no sign of faltering. The sixth day brought Andrew Lanning in close view of the lower hills. And on the seventh day, he put his fortune boldly to the touch and jogged into the first little town before him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was just after the hot hour of the afternoon. The shadows from the hills to the west were beginning to drop across the village; people who had kept to their houses during the early afternoon now appeared on their porches. Small boys and girls, returning from school, were beginning to play. Their mothers were at the open doors, exchanging shouted pieces of news and greetings, and Andrew picked his way with care along the street. It was a town flung down in the throat of a ravine without care or pattern. Houses appeared absurdly on sharp hilltops, and again in gullies, where the winter rains must threaten the foundations, at least once a year. There was not even one street, but rather a collection of straggling paths that met about a sort of open square, on the sides of which were the stores and the inevitable saloons and hotel.

  But the narrow path along which Andrew rode was a gantlet to him. Before he came among the houses, he had rolled a cigarette, and now he smoked it with enforced carelessness, and although his heart was thudding at his ribs painfully, he made the gelding move slowly. He was intent on appearing at all costs the casual traveler. And he could not know how completely he failed in his part. For the shop pallor, which years of work had given Andrew, was not yet gone. His was one of those white skins that never satisfactorily takes on a tan, and to contrast with that skin, he had intense black eyes that, no matter how casual he attempted to make their glances, burned into the faces of passers-by. It was impossible for him to pass any man, woman, or child without searching the face. For all he knew, the placards might be already out. One of the least of those he passed might have recognized him. He noticed that one or two women, in their front doors, stopped in the midst of a word to watch him curiously. It seemed to Andrew that a buzz of comment and warning preceded him and closed behind him. He felt that the children stood and gaped at him from behind, but he dared not turn in his saddle to look back.

  At all costs he must get into the heart of this place, hear men talk, learn if those placards were up, and discover if any posses were out to search the road for the wanderer. And he kept on, reining in the gelding and probing every face with one swift, resistless glance that went to the heart. He had been accustomed, in the old days, to look straight before him and see no one. He had been apt to pass even old acquaintances without noticing them, but those times were far in the past. Now it was a matter of necessity. He dared not let a single one go by. He found himself literally taking the brains and hearts of men into the pal
m of his hand and weighing them. Yonder old man, so quiet, with the bony fingers clasped around the bowl of his corncob, sitting with blank eyes under the awning by the watering trough—that would be an ill man to cross in a pinch—that hand would be steady as a rock on the barrel of a gun. But the big, square man with the big, square face who talked so loudly on the porch of yonder store—there was a bag of wind that could be punctured by one threat and turned into a figure of tallow by the sight of a gun. Here was a pair of honest eyes on which the glance of Andrew caught and clung a moment. Ah, those were the eyes that he must fear now, for they belonged to the side of law and order, and the owner of them would stamp him underfoot like a snake in the house. Yonder was a pair of small, bright, shifting eyes that Andrew was glad to see. A whispered word, a coin slipped into the palm of that man, and he might be made useful.

  Andrew went on with his lightning summary of the things he passed. Human nature had been a blank to him before. Now he found it a crowded book, written in letters, sometimes so large and bold that the facts stared at him, and sometimes so small, an important thing was scrawled away in corners that he almost overlooked.

  But he came to the main square, the heart of the town. It was quite empty. He went across to the hotel, tied the gelding at the rack, and sat down on the veranda. He wanted with all his might to go inside, to get a room, to be alone and away from this battery of searching eyes. But he dared not. He must mingle with these people and learn what they knew.

  An old man beside him began talking—rambling on—asking questions. Was he out of the south? Had he come by Bill Jowett’s place by any chance? Bill Jowett was an old friend. His wife was “took bad” a few weeks since with some heart trouble. The maundering voice droned on; the little, dull eyes kept wandering about the square, and Andrew came to the verge of a mad explosion. That impulse alarmed him and taught him the guard that he must keep over his tongue. As it was, he turned and, with one angry glance, silenced the old man. Then, alarmed at what he had done, Andrew went in and sought the bar.

  It should be there, if anywhere, the poster with the announcement of Andrew Lanning’s outlawry and the picture of him. What picture would they take? The old snapshot of the year before, which Jasper had taken? No doubt that would be the one. But much as he yearned to do so, Andrew dared not search the wall. He stood up to the bar and faced the bartender. The latter favored him with one searching glance and then pushed across the whiskey bottle.

  How did he know that Andrew wanted whiskey? The bartender knew at a glance he was not confronted with a government agent, but a regular fellow of the Western country.

  “Do you know me?” asked Andrew with surprise. And then he could have cursed his careless tongue.

  “I know you’re safe and need a drink,” said the bartender, looking at Andrew again. Suddenly he grinned. “When a man’s been dry that long, he gets a hungry look around the eyes that I know. Hit her hard, boy.”

  Andrew brimmed his glass and tossed off the drink. And to his astonishment, there was none of the shocking effect of his first drink of whiskey. It stung his throat, it burned in his stomach for a moment, but it was like a drop of water tossed on a huge blotter. To the tired nerves of Andrew, the alcohol was a mere nothing. Besides, he dared not let it affect him. He filled a second glass, pushing across the bar one of the gold pieces of Henry Allister. Then, turning casually, he glanced along the wall. There were other notices up—many written ones—but not a single face looked back at him. All at once Andrew grew weak with relief. But in the meantime he must talk to this fellow.

  “What’s the news?”

  “What kind of news?”

  “Any kind. I’ve been talkin’ more to coyotes than to men for a long spell.”

  Should he have said that? Was not that a suspicious speech? Did it not expose him utterly?

  “Nothin’ to talk about here much more excitin’ than a coyote’s yap. Not a damn’ thing. Which way you come from?”

  “South. The last I heard of excitin’ news was this stuff about Lanning, the outlaw.”

  It was out, and he was glad of it. He had taken the bull by the horns.

  “Lanning? Lanning,? Never heard of him. Oh, yes, the gent that bumped off Bill Dozier. Between you and me, they won’t be any sobbin’ for that. Bill had it comin’. He’s been huntin’ trouble too long. But they’ve outlawed Lanning, have they?”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  But sweet beyond words had been this speech from the bartender. They had barely heard of Andrew Lanning in this town; they did not even know that he was outlawed. Andrew felt hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat. Now for one long sleep, then he would make the ride across the mountains and into safety. That sleep on a soft bed, he felt, would give him the strength of a Hercules.

  He went out of the barroom, put the gelding away in the stables behind the hotel, and got a room. In ten minutes, pausing only to tear the boots from his feet, he was sound asleep under the very gates of freedom.

  And while he slept, the gates were closing and barring the way. If he had wakened even an hour sooner, all would have been well, and although he might have dusted the skirts of danger, they could never have blocked his way. But, with seven days of exhausting travel behind him, he slept like one drugged, the clock around and more. It was morning, mid-morning when he wakened.

  Even then he was too late, but he wasted priceless minutes using the luxury of hot water to shave. He wasted more priceless minutes eating his breakfast, for it was delightful beyond words to have food served to him that he had not cooked with his own hands. And so, sauntering out onto the veranda of the hotel, he saw a compact crowd on the other side of the square, and the crowd focused on a man who was tacking up a sign. Andrew, still sauntering, joined the crowd, and looking over their heads, he found his own face staring back at him, and under the picture of that lean, serious face, in huge, black type: $5,000 REWARD FOR THE CAPTURE, DEAD OR ALIVE…

  The rest of the notice blurred before his eyes.

  Someone was speaking. “You made a quick trip, Mister Dozier, and I expect if you send word up to Hallowell in the mountains they can…”

  So Hal Dozier had brought the notices himself.

  Andrew, in that moment, became perfectly calm. And he felt that tingling nervousness in his knees, in his elbows, and thrilling into the tips of his fingers.

  He went back to the hotel, and resting one elbow on the desk, he looked calmly into the face of the clerk and the proprietor. Instantly he saw that the men did not suspect—as yet.

  “I hear Mister Dozier’s here?” he asked.

  “Room seventeen,” said the clerk. “Hold on. He’s out in the square now.”

  “’S’all right. I’ll wait in his room.”

  He went to room seventeen. The door was unlocked. And drawing a chair into the farthest corner, Andrew sat down, rolled a cigarette, lighted it, drew his revolver, and waited.

  Chapter Seventeen

  He waited an eternity; in actual time it was exactly ten minutes. Then a cavalcade tramped down the hall. He heard their voices, and Hal Dozier was among them. About him flowed a babble of questions, as the men struggled for the honor of a word from the great man. Perhaps he was coming to his room to form the posse and issue general instructions for the chase.

  The door opened. Dozier entered, jerked his head squarely to one side, and found himself gazing into the muzzle of a revolver. The astonishment and the swift hardening of his face had begun and ended in a fraction of a second.

  “It’s you, eh?” he said, still holding the door.

  “Right,” said Andrew. “I’m here for a little chat about this Lanning you’re after.”

  Hal Dozier paused another heartbreaking second; then he saw that caution was the better way. “I’ll have to shut you out for a minute or two, boys. Go down to the bar and have a few on me.” He turned, laughing and waving to them, and Andrew’s heart went out to such consummate coolness, such remarkable nerve. Then the
door closed, and Dozier turned slowly to face his hunted man. Their glances met, held, and probed each other deeply, and each of them recognized the man in the other. Into Andrew’s mind came back the words of the great outlaw, Allister: There’s one man I’d think twice about meeting, and that…

  “Sit down,” said Andrew. “And you can take off your belt if you want to. Easy! That’s it. Thank you.”

  The belt and the guns were tossed onto the bed, and Hal Dozier sat down. He reminded Andrew of a terrier, not heavy, but all compact nerve and fighting force—one of those rare men who are both solid and wiry. “I’m not going to frisk you for another gun,” said Andrew.

  “Thanks. I have one, but I’ll let it lie.” He made a movement.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Andrew, “I’d rather that you don’t reach into your pockets. Use my tobacco and papers, if you wish.” He tossed them onto the table, and Hal Dozier rolled his smoke in silence. Then he tilted back in his chair a little. His hand with the cigarette was as steady as a vise, and Andrew, shrugging forward his own ponderous shoulders, dropped his elbows on his knees and trained the gun full on his companion.

  “I’ve come to make a bargain, Dozier,” he said.

  The other made no comment, and the two continued that silent struggle of the eyes that was making Andrew’s throat dry and his heart leap.

  “Here’s the bargain. Drop off this trail. Let the law take its own course through other hands, but you give me your word to keep off the trail. If you’ll do that, I leave this country and stay away. Except for one thing, I’ll never come back here. You’re a proud man… you’ve never quit a trail yet before the end of it. But this time I only ask you to let it go with running me out of the country.”

  “What’s the one thing for which you’d come back?”

  “We’re talking in confidence?”

  “Certainly, Lanning.”

  That small thing made a vast deal of difference to Andrew. For ten years he had been Andy to this man; now he was Lanning. For the first time, probably, he felt the meaning of Bill’s death to his brother.