by Max Brand
“No,” said Tom.
“But what started you on my trail?”
“I thought I’d find you. I found the shell you snapped out of the gun about a mile from the place. That gave me the line you’d traveled. I hit your fire on top of the mountain. . . .”
“You lie!” cried the giant. “It must have been washed away by the rains!”
“One side of a stone was black with the soot of your fire,” said Tom.
The other grunted, and his little eyes opened with wonder. “You sure read a trail close,” he said.
“Then I came on,” said Tom. “After a while, I came on your sign. You were taking your time, you know.”
“I can hurry when I want to,” said Bill. “I can break their hearts easy enough if they press me. But I didn’t figure that I had any call to hurry right then. Otherwise, you wouldn’t never have found me, son.”
“I suppose not,” said Tom.
“But where one gent can follow, another can follow. And by coming over the same way, it’ll be like a paved road for the rest of ’em,” groaned Bill. “I wish you’d minded your own business and kept away. Why’d you want to horn in and spoil my game? Did I ask you to come down here and call on me like a fool?”
Wild with anger, he fingered the butt of his revolver, and the sweat came cold on the forehead of Tom, yet he managed to meet the glare of Bill squarely.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Shall I put some wood in the stove?”
“Go do it!” snapped Bill.
Tom rose leisurely, stretched, looked out of the doorway into the sunlit clearing, and listened again. Far, far away, like a ghost on the steady wind, he had heard the baying of a pack of dogs. Why did not Bill hear it? But when he turned, he saw that the face of the larger man was not intent in listening. Perhaps his ears were less keenly attuned. At any rate, it meant that the time of Tom was short.
He turned to the stove, took off the lids, and then leaned to pick up a chunk of wood. He reached for the largest and heaviest stick, and, as his fingers closed around it, something like the passing of a shadow, a chill sweeping over his spine, made him wince away just as the hand and the heavy, clubbed revolver of Bill shot down past his head.
Full of suspicion of this unbidden guest, Bill had not been able to get rid of him with a bullet so long as he was unarmed, but the moment his back was turned the conscience of Bill was at ease. Only that lightning dodge to the side had saved Tom from a crushed skull.
He whirled like a cat and struck at the flash of the gun. The billet of wood hit the hand—the gun was knocked spinning toward the door and through it. The roar of Bill, as he jerked back his wounded hand, was as loud as the roar of Jerry in a moment of fury. Tom sprung back, appalled— and received the teeth of Tiger as the big brute fastened his grip on Tom’s leg. Yet he dared venture hardly a glance at the dog. One look, and he struck with all his force. The heavy stick landed squarely across the eyes of Tiger and dropped him with a groan, but the blow snapped the stick across and left Tom unarmed to meet the rush of the giant.
All the advantage of his agility was gone. In an instant the giant had closed on him. He could only duck his head under a blow that would have knocked him senseless, never to reawaken. Then the huge arms were wrapped around him. But, in ducking with lowered head, he had thrown his left elbow before him. The enveloping pressure of the big man drove that elbow like a spear into the bones of his chest.
The pain made Bill shout, and in that instant Tom whirled out of the grip of the giant. But so tremendous was the strength of Bill that the tattered remnants of Tom’s buckskin shirt remained in his hands, and Tom was naked to the waist. Bill snatched a rifle from the wall—no time to level and aim it—and he flung it at Tom’s head. It flew past him as he swerved. Instead of running, as the giant had expected, Tom darted in and flashed both hands into the giant’s face.
Trained by many a bruising combat with Jerry to strike speedily beyond conception and with pile-driver force, Tom raised a red welt on the cheek of Bill with one of those blows, and the other slashed the flesh over a cheekbone and let the blood flow in a stream down his face.
Bill struck in turn with all his might. But he had been stung, and hurt men strike short. Just past the face of Tom his blow swept, and the long, darting arms of the smaller man rammed home again into the face of Bill. In either hand there was force enough to have dropped a common man, stunned and helpless, but the solid jaw of Bill took the blows and telegraphed only a faint shock and a small pain to that small, brute brain.
But he was blind with utter rage. He came in, head down, to crush Tom against the wall. It was like trying to corner a wildcat. He struck thin air and battered himself against the logs. Before he could turn, he received a blow like that of a four-pound sledge swung by a strong hand, landing just beneath and behind his ear. This time he was staggering. He reeled around and met a volley of cutting blows that brought a fresh trickle from his nose and cut his mouth. But here, again, strokes that would have stunned a prize fighter were merely like the sting of a spur to Bill. His slow brain quickened into life again. He saw clearly, and knew that he could never stand at a distance and exchange blows with this shadowy enemy who seemed to carry a hammerhead in either fist. He lowered his head and came in again, but more slowly, his arms outstretched to grip his enemy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
WITH THE POSSE CLOSE BY
For every foot the giant advanced, a pair of driving blows crashed against his head, and just as he thought he was sure to close and set his crushing hands on Tom, the latter flung himself to the side. One hand gripped his shoulder. He tore himself out of the hold, even though those terrible fingers flayed off his skin as though they were iron pincers. A crimson trickle ran down his body as he whirled and struck again.
Bill swept a roundabout swing at the head of Tom. It was like striking at a bobbing cork. The blow went wild, and his ribs sagged an instant later as both fists whipped home into his body. This was far worse than blows to the head. His fat abdomen was not meant to withstand such shocks. A mist of sickness clouded his eyes. With a groan he rushed once more, and once more his arms closed on empty air.
He was despairing when he turned. His face had been cut to ribbons. One eye was almost closed. Blood trickled over the other, and still that terrible phantom swayed and dodged before him, and, when he struck, his arm lunged through nothingness.
If only he could get to close quarters. He plunged in again. And again he saw the smaller man waver in a feint to one side, then plunge to the other, but, as he leaped, his foot landed on the barrel of the fallen rifle, which slipped and rolled under his weight. Down went Tom and sprang up again like a bounding rubber ball. But it was too late. That instant had given Bill time to close, and now with a savage shout of joy he flung himself on Tom. One arm passed around the body of Tom. The other hand fastened on his throat, and he whined and sobbed with hysterical joy.
It seemed to Tom that the tendons of his throat were being sprung asunder from the bone. The blood rushed into his face. His eyes swelled out. In vain he clubbed his fists and beat them into that bleeding face. The giant laughed through his teeth and increased his pressure.
A sound of rushing, tumbling water poured into the ears of Tom. Yet he fought swiftly, even though a veil was falling over his senses. He pressed one arm up between himself and the chest of Bill. He passed that arm over the wrist that was beneath his chin. On that leverage he cast a resistless pressure by leaping off the floor and spinning his whole weight into the air. The grip was torn from his throat.
He pitched to the floor, but the giant had toppled, also, and they regained their feet at the same time and stood swaying and exhausted. In three brief minutes of battle they had poured out all their strength.
Then it was that condition began to tell in favor of Tom. To be sure, Bill was well conditioned himself, but he had never known the life of exposure and hardship that was Tom’s average life. His muscles had not been turned in
to so much seasoned whipcord. The exertions had sapped his wind. But two deep breaths dragged into Tom’s straining lungs revived him once more.
He slipped aside from the next rush of the giant, whirled, and met him with a blow behind which was his entire power. His fist landed just beside the point of the big man’s chin. The shock of it sent a numb tingle to Tom’s shoulder, but it stopped Bill in his tracks.
The left fist followed the right, made doubly strong by an electric spark of hope. He cried out softly with joy as the giant gave back with a groan of despair and bewilderment. He lunged again and suddenly, with the terror and the joy of a gambler taking a last chance. Tom stood his ground, his back to the wall, and struck again with all his might. Again the blow landed on the point of the giant’s jaw.
Constant hammering will make the staunchest stone crumble. While the first strokes had hardly fazed Bill, the continual dinting of those iron-hard fists had had an effect. A numb area had been growing in his brain. Now it seemed to Tom that the knees of the big man sagged a little under the weight of the punch. At least, it stopped him short again.
He swung his thick arm, and, taking another chance, Tom allowed it to land. But there was still weight enough in that tired arm to lift him off his feet as the fist struck his chest and sent him crashing into the wall. With a gasp he rebounded, braced himself, and drove both fists again into the face of Bill. And again he stopped the big man.
He discovered that there was a world of difference between hitting while on the run and striking while both his feet were planted. He saw the head of the giant roll, and crimson spattered out of the clogged wet beard as he struck. He shifted in a little, and again, with feet spread and planted, he struck. The jaw of Bill drooped. His eyes grew blank. Vaguely he swung at the head of Tom, and the latter stepped in and shot his own fist inside the arc of that swaying arm. The blow landed fair and true on the jaw. That jaw was loose now. Tom felt it give horribly, as though the bones were broken, and Bill slumped to his knees, his back against the wall. It was a grim thing to do, but there could be no chances taken with this brute of a man. Tom crouched and struck again mercilessly. The blow drove the loose head back against the logs. And Bill toppled forward on his face and lay, immense and sprawling, on the floor.
As Tom stood above him, weak-kneed all at once, and gasping for breath, hardly able to realize that of his own power he had been able to beat the giant to insensibility, something which had been forming in his brain as a vague worry now grew clear and defined. It was the baying of a dog pack growing momentarily closer. The posse was near at hand.
He ran to the door and closed and bolted it. He went back to the fallen body that was now groaning. With a cord he secured the wrists and then the feet of the big man. Last, he turned the giant upon his back, then tugged the inert figure to a sitting position, back against the wall.
Bill opened his eyes and looked wildly about him. He glared at Tom with a slow comprehension of what had happened. His jaw sagged as though another blow had landed in the clotted beard at the point of his chin.
“Well,” he said finally, “that was a pretty good bout.” He tried to laugh. The result was a horrible mimicry of mirth. It ended as he saw the grim face of Tom and the naked torso striped with crimson that had flowed from Tom’s torn throat.
“Stand up,” said Tom.
The giant rose obediently, swaying on his bound feet.
First Tom reerected the fallen table. “Now sit down there,” he said, pointing to a stool that he had placed near the table.
Bill hopped clumsily on his bound feet to the stool and sat down. Tiger, beginning to waken from his swoon, groaned feebly. That sound was echoed by an ear-filling burst of music from the approaching pack, and Bill gasped with terror.
“What’s that?” he cried.
“The posse,” Tom answered. “They’re coming to get me for the killing of Dick Walker. But they’ll get you, instead. Bill, you’re going to write on the top of the table . . . ‘I killed Dick Walker.’ And after that you’ll put your name under it. Do you hear?”
The tongue of Bill lolled out across his lips. He stared, fascinated, at Tom.
“D’you want me to put the rope around my neck?” he gasped.
“If I hadn’t dodged you a little while ago,” Tom said quietly, “they would have run you down for murder. It’s all one, Bill. Write on that table. Here’s some charcoal that will do.” As he spoke, he passed a rope around Bill’s waist, fastened his left hand to it, and loosened the right. He picked his own revolver out of the holster hanging on the wall. He leveled it at the big man.
“Write!” he commanded.
But Bill, shuddering, shook his head. The baying of the pack came crashing through the forest. There was hardly a minute left to Tom. Another thought came to him. The poker, when he opened the stove, had been allowed to tip into the fire. He lifted it out. The end was red-hot. He knew that Jerry dreaded fire with a consummate fear. Might not this huge beast of a man have the same fear?
He leveled the white, gleaming end of the poker close to the forehead of Bill. “Write,” he commanded, “or I’ll write with this in your face!”
“No, no,” groaned Bill. “Lord! Get that thing away. I’ll write!” With sagging jaw, whining like a beaten dog, he scratched the words across the surface of the table:
I killed Dick Walker.
Bill McKenzie
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE SHERIFF TAKES TWO
Lest he should erase those precious words with a sweep of his hand, Tom fastened both hands behind Bill again. Then he stepped to the door of the cabin, threw it open, and stood outside, near the wall of the little house, just as the tumult of dogs poured out from among the trees and streamed across the clearing toward him. Behind him, he heard the voices of men and the crashing of their horses among the trees.
As for the dog pack, it recoiled from this human quarry and stood about him in a loose semicircle, snarling and howling to show that the enemy was at bay. A moment more, and the hunters themselves came.
They came in a straggling body, a full score of them, and others, distanced by the hard going, were still busily working through the more distant woods. What Tom saw first was the face of Hank Jeffries, with Si Bartlett riding at his side. At sight of Tom at bay, Jeffries jerked out a gun. But Bartlett knocked down his hand.
“Steady up, Hank!” cried Bartlett. “He’s surrendered. He’d rather get his neck stretched than be salted away with lead. Sheriff, this is your lucky day.”
This to the sheriff, as the latter burst out of the forest on a sweating horse. When he saw what prize had been reserved for him, he threw up his hat with a wild shout. After that, he flung himself out of the saddle and came forward, gun in hand— came slowly, as one who approaches a dangerous and treacherous quarry. But Tom stood without moving, leaning his naked shoulders against the wall of the cabin. The wind was blowing his long hair aside. The blood was drying on his chest, over which his long, brown arms were folded. It was no wonder that the sheriff came slowly.
Sheriff Cassell halted and kicked a dog out of his way. The pack stopped its yelling. In the background, the swarm of horsemen stopped their shouting in wonder at what they saw.
“Are you the man called Tom Parks?” asked the sheriff, conscious of the many eyes that rested on him, conscious, too, that this day he had made a name for himself among the most famous of man-hunters, and that the job of sheriff was his for life if he wanted it.
“I am Tom Parks,” said a deep, quiet voice.
The little sheriff took a step nearer. “I arrest you,” he said, “in the name of the law. From this moment whatever you say may be used against you in court. Hold out your hands.”
They were obediently offered. Over the strong wrists the steel of the handcuffs was snapped. Every man in the posse breathed more freely now that those sinewy hands were helpless.
“Why am I arrested?” Tom asked.
“For horse stealing,” the sheri
ff said slowly, “for burglary, for grand larceny, and for petty larceny, and for the murder of Dick Walker.”
“For horse stealing first!” cried Hank Jeffries, who had thrown himself from his horse and stepped to the front, his lean face contorted with rage and satisfaction. “And that’s enough to hang you.” Then he struck Tom heavily in the face with his fist.
The big man did not stir—only a small trickle of crimson went down his face from his mouth.
The sheriff turned, raging, upon Hank Jeffries. “Jeffries,” he said, “get back in the crowd if you want to keep a whole skin. If Tom Parks had had his hands free, you’d rather’ve hit a mountain lion than hit him. If you or any other gent lays a hand on him again, I’ll start talking with my gun. Get back and keep out of my sight.”
There was a deep-throated murmur of approbation from the posse. They had pressed closer, those thin-faced cowpunchers, staring hungrily at the man who had baffled them so long on the trail, hardly able to understand how they could finally have run him down.
“Who’s inside that cabin?” asked the sheriff of Tom. “And what hell-fire have you been raising now?”
“See for yourself,” said Tom.
The sheriff stepped cautiously into the open door of the cabin and stood there rooted to the floor with a shout of astonishment.
“Bill McKenzie!” he cried. “Boys, we’ve landed the two prize birds at one throw of the stone. Bill McKenzie!”
There was a rush for the door of the cabin. Then came another shout as the sheriff read off the confession. “He killed Dick Walker!”
Another voice was lifted, a huge voice of half-whining protest. “He forced me to write that, Sheriff. I swear I didn’t have nothing to do with Walker’s death. He got out a red-hot poker and said he’d jab it into my face unless I wrote that lie on the table and put my name to it.”
