Silvertip's Roundup

by Brand, Max

  But, after all, a man finds only what he expects to find. That’s always the way. These people probably had not heard anything about his past record. They had taken the guns away from him and they thought that was the end of his equipment, just as it would be the end of theirs. Perhaps they had felt for a knife and found none and considered the necessity of their search at an end.

  Now they climbed down from the seats.

  Only Pokey remained. His high, sharp voice said: “Hey, wake up!” And he kicked Taxi in the head.

  The blow fell right on his fresh scalp wound. The pain made him hold his breath for an instant. Then he was able to say calmly:

  “I’m awake, Pokey.”

  “Sit up, then,” said Pokey. “Tryin’ to delay the game?”

  He caught Taxi by the hair of the head and jerked him into a sitting posture.

  “Use your legs. Climb down out of this!” said Pokey.

  Taxi rose to his feet by a difficult act of balancing.

  “Now jump down,” commanded Pokey.

  Taxi jumped. He managed to clear the side of the buckboard and the wheels, but then of course he fell helplessly forward on his face. Luckily he had dropped on grass.

  Pokey was laughing. His laughter was high-pitched and long-drawn. It sounded like the neighing of a horse at a little distance.

  He got hold of the hair of Taxi’s head again.

  “Somebody take his feet,” said Pokey.

  “I’ll do it,” said Scotty. “Lay off him a little, Pokey. He ain’t a dog; he’s two parts man, anyway.”

  “Shut your mouth,” answered Pokey. “Don’t try to tell me how to handle him. I’m goin’ to kill him! I’m goin’ to eat him alive. I’m just getting a few tastes of him now.”

  “All right,” said Scotty carelessly. “I don’t care what you do. Come on!”

  Charlie Larue and Babe had gone ahead. Now Taxi was carried under the sweet gloom of pine trees, with glimpses of the stars in between. A door opened. They passed into a very dimly lighted hall, and then into a big room.

  Down in Horseshoe Flat the air had been hot and still. Up here the air was so cold that it touched his wound with fingers of aching ice. In the big room he heard the fluttering of flames. The place was pleasantly warmed. He saw wreathings of pipe smoke gathering toward the rafters. It was the smoke from a pipe because it was a heavier smell and not so sharp as that of cigarettes.

  “Sit him up in that chair,” said a deeply musical voice. “Hold on there — has he been hurt? Too bad, too bad! That’s not a way to carry a man. By the hair of the head? Pokey, you’re a cruel devil. Never let me see you do that! Never again.”

  “Sorry, chief!” said Pokey.

  They sat Taxi up in a comfortable canvas chair.

  By the way they had been speaking, he was reasonably sure that he was at last in the presence of that great personage, Barry Christian. And he saw before him a man whose looks were worthy of his repute.

  He was tall, well-made, with a good thickness of throat and the muscles stuffing out his coat across the breast and over the tips of the shoulders exactly as they should do in a perfect athlete. He was strong. He was very strong. There was not in him quite the suggestion of feline strength and speed that Taxi had felt about “Arizona Jim” Silver, but there was ample muscle about the man.

  Yet after a glance, his body disappeared, and only the face remained, for plainly the empire of this fellow was ruled by the brain alone, rather than by hand and brain together. It was a lean, pale, handsome face. The texture and the color of the skin were that of one who leads a life sheltered from wind and rain and sun. The nostrils and mouth were very sensitive. The brow was magnificent, the eyes deeply set in big hollows. And this handsome face, this face that had the sensitive beauty of an artist’s, was framed by a soft flow of hair that was worn long.

  He wore a long brown smoking jacket of velvet. A heavy cord of braided silk was tied loosely around it. The broad collar fell wide on his shoulders. His feet were incased in slippers of soft red morocco. He looked, in short, like some landscape painter, say, who had retired to the mountains to find the scenes he loved to put on canvas. But Taxi knew that he was in the presence of one of the great criminal minds of the world.

  VIII

  Questions

  CHRISTIAN seemed greatly perturbed by the ragged scalp wound on the side of his prisoner’s head. He sent for hot water and bandages, at once. While he waited for them to come, he had the hands of Taxi freed from the ropes, and the other ropes were cut away from his knees and feet. Pokey sat near by with a sawed-off shotgun across his knees. That weapon was enough to take the place of all the ropes and chains in the world, when it came to keeping a man in place.

  Christian filled a curved pipe and lighted it with a coal from the fire. It was a thing worth watching, to see the way in which his long, delicate fingers handled the coal, lightly, surely, putting it on the tobacco for a moment and then casting it away.

  Then he stood in front of the fire, teetering back and forth, shaking his head with a frown of mute concern as he looked at the bleeding head of Taxi.

  It was a log cabin, Taxi saw, but well built, with thick walls. On the floor and covering a couch were a number of the big goatskins that Mexicans love to have around. There was nothing else worth comment, except a well-filled shelf of books. Christian had been reading in a big easy chair near the fireplace; the book now lay face down on the arm of the chair.

  A Chinaman came in, his pigtail bobbing with haste, and put a basin of steaming water and a roll of bandage on the table. Christian himself took charge of the bathing and the bandaging. His touch was softer than the touch of a woman. He moved without haste, but always with surety.

  When, at last, he had the bandage fitted well in place, he stepped back and regarded his work with a critical eye, as though the appearance of the bandage meant a great deal to him.

  “Is that comfortable?” he asked.

  “It’s right enough,” said Taxi.

  “Good!” said Christian. “Have a drink?”

  “No.”

  “No drink? After that blow on the head and a long, cold ride in the night? Your hands are still blue!”

  “I’m all right,” said Taxi.

  “No drinking, except with old friends, eh?” Christian smiled. “Well, I don’t blame you. If a man can be sure of his company when he drinks, he’s sure of a longer and a happier life, I dare say. However, if you don’t mind, I’ll help myself.”

  He poured some whisky into a long glass which he filled to the top with water. It made a thin drink, the color of the palest amber. Then he held up the glass toward Pokey.

  “And you?” he asked.

  “The devil with it,” said Pokey.

  At this rudeness, Christian merely shook a long, straight forefinger. He shook his head, also.

  “You shouldn’t hurt the feelings of people,” he cautioned. “It’s a sad thing that you insist on being so rough in your talk, Pokey. It keeps you from makin’ friends. Some day you’ll regret it!”

  “Yeah?” said Pokey.

  He wanted to say more. His nervous lips worked over unspoken words. His nervous fingers trembled eagerly over the lock of the shotgun. But awe of the chief kept the words unspoken.

  The other men had left the room. Their voices sounded dimly in the distance. There was only Pokey with his gun, and Christian and Taxi.

  “What happened, Pokey?” asked Christian. “You’ve had a fall or a blow, yourself.”

  Pokey lifted his left hand, keeping his nervous right forefinger constantly playing over the trigger of the gun, and made a stabbing gesture at Taxi.

  “Ah, he did it? He struck you, Pokey?” said Christian. “Too bad!”

  “He knocked me cold. He wouldn’t drink with me. I went to pour the whisky down his neck. And he popped me. He socked me. He had brass knuckles on.”

  Taxi smiled.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Christian. “I’m afraid that he onl
y hit you with his bare hand, because I see a slightly discolored place just below his knuckles. I’m afraid that there was nothing but muscle in that punch, Pokey. And let me suggest something to you. When you size up a man, don’t go by his inches or his weight. Look not at the top of his neck but at the base of it. Look at his wrist to see whether it is flat or rounded. In spite of trousers, one can generally tell how a man is muscled about the knees. And if you note a few of these points in our friend, you’ll observe that he’s a very strong fellow. Very strong, indeed.”

  He nodded at Pokey, who merely grunted.

  “And after he knocked you down — then there was a brawl?” asked Christian.

  “He gave Larue some jaw. That was all. He and Larue jawed each other. They stood up to the bar. They were going to pass at their guns when Pudge gave the word. And this here, he stood there and laughed. He seemed to like it.”

  “Ah, well, and perhaps he did,” said Christian. “We all have our little peculiarities of taste, you know, Pokey. Our friend laughed. But Larue, perhaps, didn’t laugh?”

  “Larue went rotten. He went bust. His mouth come open. He panted. He begun to look sick.”

  “Too bad! Too bad!” said Barry Christian. He made a clucking sound of regret.

  “That’s the great trouble with your optimistic type of man,” said Christian, continuing to shake his head. “The poor fellows are very good in the quick emergencies, but when there is a long strain, they’re very apt to buckle up. I’m sorry to hear this about poor Charlie Larue. It will put him on the path to murder, I’m afraid, to make his reputation good again. And finally, Pokey?”

  “Well, finally Pudge saw that Charlie Larue was done in. And Pudge leaned across the bar and slogged this gent, and he dropped. As he was dropping — as he was out, complete — he gets out a pair of automatics and shoots a bullet through the ceiling, and with the other slug out of the right-hand gun, he knocks off Charlie’s hat.”

  “Just before he fell?” asked Christian.

  “No, as he was falling.”

  “Pokey,” said Barry Christian in a tone of gentle reproach, “you don’t mean that as he was falling, he shot the hat off the head of Charlie Larue? You mean, as he was falling senseless?”

  “I ain’t talking for the fun of hearing myself talk,” said Pokey. “Take it or leave it. I don’t care.”

  “There you are again,” said Christian. “Rough talk from a rough tongue. It makes trouble, and never accomplishes any good, my friend. I’m sorry to hear you talk like this.”

  He turned back to Taxi.

  Pokey was saying: “Pudge meant to bash his head in. But the kid found time to duck even when there wasn’t any time. Pudge almost missed him. Just clinked the gun on him along the top of the head. You can see for yourself.”

  “A well-trained fellow,” said Barry Christian, shining his eyes at Taxi, “is a pleasure to meet. A man with hand and eye working together and a quick wit and a strong body and exhaustless nerve. It’s a happiness for me to be with you, my friend. Won’t you tell me your name?”

  “Taxi is as good as any,” he answered.

  “Taxi? That will do. Taxi, because you run up high charges in a short time? Is that the reason that you were called that name?”

  “Quite possibly,” said Taxi with a smile.

  “Maybe he’s taken a few of the gents in the Big Noise for a ride,” suggested Pokey.

  “Why, perhaps he has,” said Barry Christian. “My name is Barry Christian, as you doubtless may have heard my men say. I understand your reasons for not wishing to give your own full name, but though I usually keep my own in the background, I feel that this is an occasion when I can afford to talk frankly. Shall I tell you why?”

  “Go ahead,” said Taxi.

  “Because I think,” said Christian, “that either you and I will reach an agreement or else we shall have to part company. Part company,” he went on in his soft, gentle, regretful voice, “in such a way that you will be leaving, at the same time, all of your old companions. You will be deserting the world you know for the unknown world. I’m sorry to say this to you, Taxi.”

  The smooth and profound hypocrisy of the man enchanted Taxi. He studied the fine lines of that face with a renewed interest. In most criminals there is some telltale mark of weakness. There was no such mark about Barry Christian. Instead, he seemed strong at every point.

  Taxi translated the last speech: “I talk, or you bump me off.”

  Christian made a broad gesture as though putting those brutal words far away from him, yet he said:

  “Now that you understand me, Taxi, please tell me what you’re doing in this part of the world.”

  “Joe Feeley was a pal of mine,” said Taxi. He considered the face of Barry Christian and told himself that he would speak the entire truth. To attempt to fence with this man would be insanity.

  “And Feeley met with an unfortunate accident, and therefore you came out West to look into the matter?”

  “That’s it,” said Taxi. “I got off the train, went to the newspaper office, looked up an old file, and found out that the name of the man who killed Feeley was Charlie Larue. I found out that Feeley had died of what they call self-defense, around here. I thought that probably Charlie Larue might die of the same sort of disease. I went to the Roundup Bar. You know the rest.”

  “A simple story,” said Barry Christian in his tenderest accents. “A plain, straightforward, simple tale. Don’t you think so, Pokey?”

  “Oh, hell!” said Pokey.

  “Well,” went on Christian, “you also went to a boarding house run by a charming girl — Sally Creighton. There you met another man. Did you not?”

  “I met a fellow called Jim Silver.”

  “In brief, what did he talk to you about?”

  “He told me to watch my step.”

  “That was all?”

  “That was all,” said Taxi.

  He did not need to make up his mind not to repeat the other things which Silver had revealed to him — such things as that Christian was his “hobby,” and that he, Silver, intended to take care of Taxi.

  However formidable a man he might be, however filled with cunning, certainly he had failed lamentably in his promise of protection! But that was all part of the game, no doubt. Perhaps Silver and Christian worked hand in glove, no matter what had been said. Yet it was also possible that Silver had meant what he said. And because of that possibility the creed of Taxi made it impossible for him to repeat a single incriminating thing about the man.

  “Now, as a matter of fact,” said Christian, “isn’t it true that you knew what had brought Feeley to this part of the world?”

  “No,” said Taxi.

  Christian smiled. “Isn’t it true,” said he, “that you knew what Feeley had in hand and that you were determined to take a share after his death?”

  “No,” said Taxi.

  “Isn’t it true that Jim Silver had sent for you?”

  “No,” said Taxi.

  Christian shook his head as he responded: “I’m sorry that you talk in this manner, my friend. I’m very sorry, because it might bring you to a great deal of trouble. You understand?”

  Taxi nodded. He sat straighter in his chair and lifted the dark lids and looked with his pale, bright eyes straight into the mind of Christian. There he saw, behind the velvet manner, a soul as cold as a stone, a will as relentless as steel.

  “I entreat you,” said Christian, “not to be obdurate. I beg you to believe that you are in a very considerable danger at this moment.”

  Taxi smiled. His bright eyes would not leave the face of Christian.

  “Very well,” said Christian. He hesitated, considered his victim. Then, in his turn, he smiled. A sharp-eyed devil looked out of his face.

  “Call Babe,” he said.

  Pokey got up with a jump. His laughter, like the neighing of a rather distant horse, filled the room.

  “That’s the idea, chief,” said he.

&
nbsp; He flung the door open and called. A heavy voice rumbled in answer. Babe entered the room. Taxi, without turning his head, recognized the weight and drag of that waddling step.

  Christian said: “You used to be able to break a neck, Babe. What about trying the old trick?”

  IX

  Taxi’s Failure

  CHRISTIAN, standing before the fireplace, took the pipe from his teeth and ran a hand through his hair. It stood up high and wild, as though a wind had struck it. A passion of expectant delight was surging in him, making his body quiver. Pokey, crouched over his shotgun, made a sound every time he drew in a breath.

  Then a pair of great, hairy hands were passed under the pits of the arms of Taxi. They swayed up and joined behind his head.

  “Fast or slow?” asked the voice of Babe, at the rear of Taxi.

  “Why — slow, I should say,” answered Christian.

  “All right,” said Babe.

  He put on pressure. The force of the leverage of the full nelson dragged Taxi’s head down. He was strong enough in the neck. “A man that ain’t got a tough neck can’t take a tough punch,” Paddy was always saying. But, though he resisted, he could not prevent the irresistible pressure on the back of his head.

  “Well, Taxi?” asked Christian.

  “No!” said Taxi.

  He could see only the floor. He felt that his spinal column would snap in an instant. Red-hot shooting pains thrust up the back of his neck and into his brain. There were dull explosions in his ears.

  “Tough, ain’t he?” said the admiring voice of Babe. “Real tough. So tough that I’d like to try my hand at softening him up a little. What say, chief?”

  “Soften him up? Do you think that you could soften him up, Babe?” asked Christian.

  Some of the frightful strain was taken off the head of Taxi. He became aware that he was breathing for the first time in many seconds. The breathing hurt his lungs.

  “Yeah, and I’ll soften him, too!” yelled Pokey suddenly.

  “Shut up, Pokey,” urged Babe. “Look at, chief. I ain’t had a hand in for a long time. That back room is made to order. I’ll soften him up. It’ll be a cinch. I’ll soften him up so’s he’ll talk his heart right out, in a day or two.”