by Max Brand
“I didn’t want to pretend,” said he rapidly, looking down at the flowers and making a vague attempt to pick them, and a very unsuccessful attempt at that. “People were saying very odd things about me. You know, some one said that I came out of a rich family in the East and—” He paused.
“Do you understand?” he asked her. “I wanted every one to know exactly what I was; and what my mother is. I should not want any one to—er—respect me—who couldn’t respect her. It’s rather hard to explain—”
“Your glasses don’t seem to be much help to you,” put in Alexa.
He was glad that the subject was turned. “I suppose that Miss Davis told you about those?” He smiled at her, in a conciliatory fashion.
“Not a great deal. I don’t believe she ever did, in fact, mention them.”
“That was another pretense. They aren’t glasses. They’re just window glass.”
“But why on earth?”
“They made me look a bit older, don’t you think?”
“Heavens!” said the girl.
At this he flung them hastily away. They clattered and broke on a rock far off.
“I didn’t know that they looked as bad as that,” he explained, coloring.
“Oh no! I didn’t mean to be rude, Mr. Holden. Except—oh, well, there’s no way to say it. Only, I’d like to ask you a question.”
“I shall be delighted.”
“Will you tell me the real truth?”
“Oh, of course.”
“You promise?”
“I do,” said he, very solemn.
“Did your mother tell the truth when she said you’d never used guns in your life?”
That interrogation struck him with a shock. There were a dozen men who hated him; there were scores who would be glad to add to their reputations by shooting him down if once they really knew that he was helpless with weapons. He could not speak for a moment. He could only watch her in a dull, hopeless fashion.
“It’s a dangerous question, in a way,” he said. “But—I have to confess. It’s true.”
“Thomas Holden!” cried she.
He pulled himself up by the staff and stood before her.
“Do you mean,” she went on, “that you faced Crogan—and did those other things—without being able to actually use a gun?”
“I—”
“And that you went out after the murderer, Curtis, and caught him, and brought him back, without being able to shoot—at all?”
“You see—”
“And that that huge big man with the bad temper—that monster Venner, was so afraid of you on account of nothing at all?”
He shook his head. “There are tricks,” he admitted sadly.
“And that was all?”
“That was all.”
Every instant he was growing hotter.
“I saw you and I heard you brave down John Cutting.”
“He had heard foolish things about me. Really, there was nothing else for me to do. And—”
“All sham!”
“You see,” he urged bitterly, “God made me weak. I’ve loved strength. I’ve worshiped strong men. I’ve forgiven brutes who hurt me, just because I believed in their right to be cruel so long as they were powerful. But I was always the way you see me—something to be despised. I’ve despised myself more than other people could. Will you believe that? But finally I saw that in order to live, even, I had to pretend to be something that I wasn’t! I had to pretend to be clever, and witty, and wise, and very, very brave!”
He dared not look up to her face at all, by this time; but he studied the pattern of the path and wished himself yards deep beneath its surface.
“And you’re nothing of all these?” snapped out Alexa.
He shook his head, and sighed.
“Not even brave?”
“I have to tell you the truth. I’m not. Not really brave, Miss Larramee. It was all bluff. I’ve been frightened almost to death, by Crogan, and riding Clancy—”
At that instant the horse, as though he had heard his name spoken, lifted his head and neighed from the street. The girl looked out at the splendid animal. Then she looked back at the crippled form of the master.
“It’s almost too wild to be listened to!” said she.
He could not answer.
“A dozen men, if they guessed, would want to murder you, Mr. Holden!”
“I hope not so many,” said he very faintly.
“More, more! Why did you tell me?”
“You asked me.”
“You’re walking on the edge of a precipice with nothing but sham to hold you up?”
“I suppose that’s it.”
“Heavens!” said the girl.
And Holden felt that the world had ended.
Here a window slammed up.
“I can’t wait any longer,” said the cross voice of Aunt Carrie. “If you haven’t found the flowers I want, come in, anyway.”
They hurried in. The girl was much ahead of Holden, and as she passed through the door, Holden heard her whisper to the witch: “Thank you!”
For what, he wondered? For calling her in and ending a painful interview, perhaps? He was more ready than ever to die!
CHAPTER 33
He took Mrs. Holden to the store, first, and there she bought a simple dress. Then he got her a pleasant room in the hotel where he found the energetic Mr. Jefford of the Larramee Tribune waiting for him. He wanted a story, and he wanted it very badly. He wanted to know about a great many things. He wanted to know, among other things, about the affair at Maybeck; he wanted to know something about the quiet little woman who was the mother of the hero; he wanted to know above all if there were any chance of the great man settling permanently in the town of Larramee and whether that old rumor about—a certain lady—
Here he was rudely checked by the cripple.
“At least,” said the editor, growing a trifle despairing, “you’ll have some statement about the reward?”
“What reward?”
“What reward, Mr. Holden? Why, the eight thousand dollars for the capture, of course! Or—don’t tell me that you didn’t know about it! But Gus Curtis confessed everything today. The sheriff broke him down!”
“Who pays the reward?” asked Holden.
“The sheriff himself.”
So Holden went to the sheriff. He was given, a very gloomy reception. The officer of the law paid over the eight thousand with no apparent joy.
“Young man,” said the sheriff, “you’re lucky. About the luckiest I ever seen in my life. I’ve been wirin’ to Maybeck to see if old Julius would make a charge. But dog-goned if he don’t refuse. He won’t hear of no arrest nor do action agin’ you. Young man, what did you do to hypnotize old hard-headed Julius Maybeck?”
“I,” said Holden by the way of answer, “want the name of the nearest good lawyer. Or do I have to go to El Paso to find one?”
“El Paso the devil!” said the sheriff with much local pride. “I aim to say Judge Kiernan is the slickest lawyer in the whole West, bar none! He could prove that red was black any day!”
Holden went straight to the office of Judge Kiernan and found a fat little man with a cigar which he held in his teeth in the center of his mouth and talked around it and stared with reddened eyes through the mist of stinging smoke.
“What could keep Curtis from hanging?” asked Holden.
“Worrying about that?” asked the judge. “Well, son, the only thing that could keep him from hanging is me. And he won’t get me.”
“Why not?”
“My price is too high.”
“How high?”
“Five thousand for a man-sized job like that.”
“Here is eight thousand dollars,” said Holden.
“You want me to help the district attorney put a rope around his neck, Holden? You want to make sure that Curtis doesn’t get off with a prison sentence?”
“I want to make sure,” said Holden, “that he isn’t hung.”
“Why, in the name of heaven?” asked the lawyer, blinking.
“Because blood is thicker than water. He’s a cousin—a good many times removed from first. Will you take the job? Eight thousand if he gets no more than life. Nothing if he’s hung.”
The judge did not hesitate. He took a firmer grip upon his cigar and then swept the money into a pocket.
“The state’ll have to pay for his board. It’s all settled,” he said.
And Holden went back to the hotel; on the veranda he encountered none other than the great Larramee in person.
“Young man,” said the millionaire, “I’ve come to invite you to my house for the night. That’s according to agreement.”
Holden shook his head. “We’ll let that go,” said he.
Larramee frowned at him. “How’s that?” he asked to make sure.
“Make it something else. When I can ride a cow pony,” and here Holden smiled faintly, “I’ll come to ask you for a job. Will you hire me then?”
Larramee lighted a cigarette and inhaled a long puff thoughtfully.
“My lad,” said he, “you’ve beaten me twice, against great odds. Confound me if I don’t think that you could beat me again. I want to do you a turn which may mean a good deal to you and which I can manage without much effort. I’d like to finance you to the East. Say, to New York. And in that city I’d pay the doctor’s bills when they take a look at that crippled leg of yours. Some of these modern specialists work miracles. Why not on you?”
“You are a thousand times too kind,” said Holden. “And what must I do in return?”
“A very simple thing. You merely keep away from the state. Forever!”
“Is there nothing else?”
“Not a thing.”
“I think,” said Holden, “that you need not make the offer. I believe that I’m to leave the state very soon.”
So he nodded farewell to Larramee, and went on into the hotel.
CHAPTER 34
There was no sleep for Holden that night. And he was up by the dawn. At breakfast time he met his mother with completed plans. They were to start north in a buckboard and meet whatever chance brought to them. So he left Mrs. Holden busy getting things together for the trip, and he himself went to say farewell to Aunt Carrie Davis.
He found her in the kitchen doing her breakfast dishes and talking amiably to a large yellow cat which was curled in the morning sun that burned across the window sill. She showed some confusion at the sight of Holden, peering through the screen door at her.
“You might whistle, man,” she told him, “to give a body a thought that you’re comin’ dashing in on ’em. What will you want at this hour of the day?”
“I have come to say good-by,” said Holden.
“Good heavens,” cried the witch, “the man is mad!”
“I have come to say good-by,” said Holden, feeling that she must have misunderstood him.
“I’m not deaf,” said she. “You’ve come to say good-by. Heavens, what a great fool a young fool can be!”
He waited a little. But she strode over to the window with her mannish step and stood there looking forth upon the country. She was so filled with peculiarities, that for all Holden knew, this might be her way of saying farewell. So he replaced his hat on his head and turned away. The witch knew by the sound, without turning her head. “Come back here,” said she. “Come back here and listen to me.”
She continued to speak without turning to face him: “I see what you are, young man,” said she. “You’re one of those that hang about and flatter a woman until you’ve unsettled her heart. And the minute she’s concerned about you, you fly away to some other place.”
“What woman?” asked Holden meekly.
“What woman, you rascal?” cried the witch. “Why, what but lovely Alexa?”
Never in his life had Holden moved so fast. He did not know how he managed it. But somehow he was inside the screen door, and tall and trembling before the witch.
“You are saying this to torture me!” breathed Holden.
“Bah!” said the witch. “No man understands what true suffering can be. However, be off with you, now. You’ve said good-by. Begone with you.”
“Alexa—” stammered Holden.
“She’ll get over it. Time is the best cure. It’s just your queernesses that have turned her head. Any girl is taken by oddities. Poor Alexa! Thank heaven that you are leaving!”
“Did she tell you—”
“That she thought you were a madman. However, I think that she’s right. Good-by, Tom Holden! Don’t come to another woman with your lies the way that you’ve come to Alexa Larramee!”
“But does she—may I—” stammered Holden.
“I’m a busy woman,” said the witch. “I can’t be talking my morning away. I think maybe Mr. Larramee will be sorry to see you go, too.”
“What!”
“He made a trip all the way to Maybeck and talked to Julius Maybeck about you. He says that he can’t understand what you’ve done to Maybeck. He’s ready to believe that you could do almost anything, young man. Now run along with you. I’m a busy woman!”
With this, she turned her back on him, and Holden went through the screen door, not softly, however, but with a wild stare in his eyes as of one who sees a vision in the broad light of the day. He hobbled forth to Clancy. He climbed into the saddle upon the lofty back of that giant of horseflesh. Then he loosed the reins and Clancy fled up the road and then whirled along the hill and plunged onwards to the house of Larramee.
Presently he stood before the door. And above him came the lofty form of Oliphant Larramee himself.
“You’ve come to see Alexa, I suppose?” said he.
“Yes,” said he faintly.
“And what the devil do you propose to say when you see her?”
“I propose to tell her that I—worship her,” said Holden.
“Bah!” said Larramee. “And what are your future plans in case she’s as great an idiot as you could ever wish her to be?”
“My future plans, sir, I have not thought about.”
“You have a mother to take care of, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“And do you think that you could make shift to carry the burden of a wife, as well? Or do you plan on receiving help?”
“Mr. Larramee,” said Holden with a sudden flush in his face and in his mind, “I shall be delighted to take every just burden that comes my way. As for my ability to carry the weight, it does not even bother me!”
Larramee stood back with a sigh. “Alexa is in the library yonder,” said he. “I think she saw you coming up the hill, and she half expects you, I believe.”
Holden, his head spinning, advanced across the floor to the lofty, arched doorway which connected the broad living room with the higher, more Gothic library. And there he found Alexa, far back among the shadows, a shadowy form herself.
“I have come to tell you—” began Holden.
Then he found that it was impossible for him to utter a sound in his throat. He closed the door softly behind him.
Afterward, a full two hours, Mrs. Holden grew restless at the hotel. For it was not the way of Tom Holden to be dilatory, and she had inculcated in him habits of punctuality. An hour and a half ago, at the latest, he should have returned. But he did not come. So she schooled herself in patience for the period that followed. Finally, she went from the hotel and up the street.
She had only a single resource. That was in Miss Carrie Davis who had been so kind to her the day before. She might be able to tell her what had happened to Tom.
She found Miss Davis apparently under a cloud, for she was far less hospitable than she had been on the evening before. She had seen Mrs. Holden’s son, she admitted, but she did not know where he had gone. Yes, she could guess, but she did not care to reveal that guess. It was all too ridiculous.
“What,” said Mrs. Holden, “is ridiculous, Miss Davis? What has Tom done?”
“A wonderfully foolish thing,” cried Miss Davis. “Something, however, that might be expected from a silly dreamer like Tom!”
“Do you think he is so very silly?” asked the mild mother.
“Idiotic!” snapped out the witch.
Mrs. Holden, of course, was both crushed and silent. And presently she saw Miss Davis raise a bony hand to command further quiet.
“What do you hear?” she whispered.
“A horse galloping,” ventured Mrs. Holden.
“Stupid!” said the witch. “Of course you do. But the point is—are there two horses or more than two running together?”
“Oh, half a dozen, I should say.”
“Your ears are no good. There aren’t more than three. There may be only two. There may be only—”
Here she paused and stiffened in her chair.
The hoofbeats rushed up the street and came to a sudden pause—exactly in front of the house of Miss Davis.
“I’ll go look—” began Mrs. Holden.
“Don’t stir!” cried the witch. “This is a fairy tale. It isn’t true. If you stir, everything will melt into thinnest air. Listen!”
Footfalls came up the walk. Two pairs of feet, and a grinding thing upon the bricks, like a cane ground down with a great weight.
“It’s Tom,” breathed Mrs. Holden, and she smiled so radiantly that a faint brightness came even across the withered features of the witch.
“And who’s with him?” asked the mother.
“A blessed angel,” said the witch, “has come down to him. That’s why this story isn’t true at all!”
