by Brand, Max
He poured out a glass of the whisky, raised it, looked through its ominous amber color at the lantern flame, and then drank it off.
A footfall presently came across the veranda; a hand tried the outer door, opened it, and the round face of Murcio looked inside.
“Come in, Murcio,” said Christian.
The Mexican started back and jerked the door almost shut. Then he pushed it open again and entered. He stood with it partially ajar, his hand on the knob as though he were ready for flight.
“Well?” asked Murcio.
“Come in,” said Christian.
“I have to go,” answered Murcio. “I have to sleep. To-morrow there is a long ride to make.”
“Come in,” said Christian.
Murcio sighed, closed the door, and advanced unwillingly across the floor.
“I’m drinking Scotch whisky,” said Christian. “Go behind the bar and help yourself to anything you want.”
“Nothing,” said Murcio.
“Then sit down.”
The Mexican drew back a chair away from the table and sat down on the edge of it. Christian smiled at him.
“You should not be in bed,” said he.
“Why not?”
“You should be riding — you and Santos and the girl, with me.”
At this, Murcio lifted both his hands and his shoulders until his fat jowls were compressed.
“She is lost to us, señor!” he said.
“You mean that the little devil has slipped away?” asked Christian.
“No, she is still here. But we cannot take her on. She is lost. The cursed man, Silver, has come. He has seen her. He has seen Brender. They are both free. Nothing will keep them from getting to men of the law. All the desert, all the mountains between this place and Mexico, will soon be swarming with posses. Only the best of fortune can get us through even without her!”
“You think that they’re riding straight away to get help. They won’t do that. They won’t dare,” said Christian.
“Dare?” said the Mexican.
“Brender is wanted by the law,” said Christian. “He can’t show his face to a sheriff.”
“There is Silver.”
“He won’t go to a distance. He’ll hang about this place like a hawk over a chicken coop, and with him will be Brender. Ah, there’s a romantic lad, Murcio. And the romantic spirit leads us all to do rather foolish things, now and then.”
“You mean that they are not riding now to get help? You mean that they are close by us, still about to attempt — no one knows what?”
“They won’t come back to try for the girl, I think. Not to-night,” said Christian. “And that’s the pity of it. Because if I could put my hands on them again — ”
He broke off with a sigh.
“At any rate, Murcio,” he said, “you should be in the saddle, you and Santos.”
“We start with the first light of the day, or a little before,” said Murcio. “But not with the girl.”
“If there are only Silver and Brender to think of, why should you be afraid — ”
“Only Silver and Brender? Only two devils! And we are mere men.”
“And you give up the girl — the money?” asked Christian.
Murcio groaned.
“All the fortune!” he muttered. “She will stay in this country. Cursed lawyers will represent her. Soon her possessions will be sold, and my chances are gone!”
“A pity,” said Christian. “Now, suppose that I rode with you?”
“You? Why should you do that? There is no hope, señor. We could not carry her through. And I am losing priceless hours of sleep in vain. If we ride off with her, then either a thousand posses will stop us, or else — ”
“If we ride off with her and are not followed at heel,” said Christian, “I tell you, Murcio, that I can find twenty places in the mountains to the south where we’ll never be found until the hunt dies down. Then we can ride on at leisure.”
“Are you sure?” said Murcio.
“But we’ll be followed by the pair of them,” went on Christian. “You can be sure of that. Good men, Murcio, don’t allow a poor young persecuted girl to be swept away by villains like us.”
He laughed soundlessly. Murcio shuddered as though the whisper broke like icy waves on his heart.
“They will be lingering close by,” said Christian. “You can be sure of that.”
“And if they are near, is it true that they have horses which eagles can hardly catch?” groaned Murcio.
“They have two good horses,” agreed Christian. “There is a golden chestnut stallion that Silver rides, and for the sake of that horse I think I would give up two fortunes like that of this girl. But there is a way in which we can leave even the stallion and his rider behind.”
“Tell me,” said Murcio.
“Of course I’ll tell you,” said the genial Christian. “It happens that I have friends scattered here and there. For what is a man’s life if it be naked of friendships, Murcio?”
“Go to the point! Go to the point!” groaned Murcio. “Friendships — yes, yes! I admit anything you want in the way of moralizing. But tell me how we can be snatched out of the hands of these two fiends?”
“In several ways, Murcio. We might draw them on into the desert and then turn back and fight them. I haven’t your awe of them, quite. But better still, and more easily done, I’ll send a man out from this place to ride far ahead of us. He will find, every fifty miles or so, certain friends of mine of whom I’ve been speaking. From each of them he’ll ask half a dozen good, tough mustangs. And so we’ll gallop along in relays, with fresh horses everyday. You understand? Not even that golden stallion will be able to keep up with us. In three days it will be worn out and fall back from a trot to a stagger. And the rest of us will go happily on!”
Murcio sprang to his feet. “It can be done!” he cried. “I feel it — and I see the happy ending. It can be done!”
“There’s the price to agree on,” said Christian. “And then to horse and away, amigo.”
“Ah, the price! Yes, yes, the price!” groaned Murcio.
He slumped back into his chair and stared gloomily toward Christian.
“What will the whole estate come to?” asked Christian.
“Oh, it’s a handsome thing,” said Murcio. “Perhaps two, perhaps even three hundred thousand dollars.”
“In cattle, eh?” said Christian.
“Yes, and in other things.”
“Three hundred in cattle, and then there’s the matter of the good timberland down there in Central America, in San Nicador, say? That would be another two or three hundred thousand?”
“Not half so much!” exclaimed Murcio. “Who told you — ”
“Besides,” said Christian, “the items you have forgotten, such as stocks and bonds, here and there, and a number of little odds and ends of real estate.”
Murcio was silent for a moment. Then he burst out: “Where did you learn all of these things?”
“She has said two words, and you have said two, and Santos has said a dozen more,” said Christian. “It isn’t hard for a good artist to paint a portrait after he’s had even a glimpse of his subject. And for my services, Murcio, I’ll take from you your note dated three months hence, for two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Two hundred — señor! Two hundred thousand, did you say?”
“Listen, my dear Murcio,” said Christian. “You won’t deny me the right to be a thrifty man and to make a thrifty bargain, will you? Next to godliness, isn’t thrift the most admirable virtue? And now I am giving you the chance to lay your hands on twice as much as I ask from you. I have drawn up the little paper here. Walk over to the bar and sign it, if you please.”
“Do you think that we can beggar her?” said Murcio, as a last resort. “Do you think that we can rob her shamelessly of her last penny?”
“With your law courts and with your cleverness, yes,” said Christian. “And besides, it will be a
good thing. What is more touching, what is more appealing than innocence and beauty cast penniless into this harsh world?”
CHAPTER XVI
Desert March
THEY went out of the Higgins oasis as a party of five, with ten horses. The spare horses were loaded with waterskins, after the Mexican fashion of carrying the liquid across the desert, and it was estimated that they had enough water to last them for three days of hot marching.
They started at a dogtrot, for a slow beginning is apt to make a strong ending. It was the hope of Barry Christian that he would be able to shake off all pursuit before the torrid heat of that desert march had ended. He could have headed due south. He chose, instead, to take a straight line southwest across the most terrible of the alkali flats. With Silver and Brender there could not possibly be such provision against thirst, and they had but one horse apiece.
With Christian traveled the girl, of course, and Murcio, also big Alonso Santos, on whose bulk and poundage Christian cast a doubtful eye more than once, and finally one of Christian’s most trusted men, “Blondy.” He was almost an albino and therefore he deserved his name. Lean and desert-dried, weightless in body, quick as a snake to strike and deadly as a snake in his effects, Blondy was a perfect tool in the hand of Christian. There was nothing in the world that he loved and there was only one thing in the world that he feared — Christian himself. When Blondy’s white eyelids were lowered, there was in his face no more expression than in a stone. But when he looked suddenly up, as was his way, one could occasionally see a little reddish-yellow flame wavering in his eyes. That fire, burning dim or bright, was never entirely absent.
They jogged the horses steadily forward, Blondy first, as being the one best acquainted with the desert of this section, then the girl on a good pinto mustang, a rope running from the neck of the pony to the pommel of Blondy’s saddle. Next came Murcio, then Santos, and last of all, a good bit behind so that he would be out of the dust, rode Christian in the post of honor.
It was the post of honor because it was the place of danger, and it was his duty to scan the horizon behind them with his keen eyes, continually.
The moon was very bright and clear. The windless night had left the air undisturbed by dust, comparatively, and the stars were unusually keen points of brilliance. Yet for all this clarity of the atmosphere, Christian spotted nothing suspicious behind them.
As morning approached, a thrill of hope began to grow in him that perhaps there would be no clash with Silver whatever and that that pursuer would never find their traces leading away from the oasis. The dawn came on. The banded color about the horizon grew from ochre to crimson, to gold, and then all color ended as the white sun slid above the sky line and instantly began to burn them to the bone.
They paused, ate a breakfast of raisins and hardtack, and changed the saddles to the backs of the mustangs that had been carrying the lighter waterskins. After that, they went on again. And Barry Christian came up to ride at the side of the girl for a few moments.
The sun was very strong and keen by this time, and every face in the party was flushed, except the face of Christian. He, instead, was as pale as ever — not chalky-white, as usual, but a more translucent clarity of skin.
He looked over Rosa Cardigan with a shrewdly appraising eye and took note of her erectness in the saddle and the brightness of her eye.
“I see,” said Christian. “All of this trouble and all of this pother, when the dear girl wanted nothing, really, except to kill homesickness by getting back to her native land. Why else should you be shining and glowing like this, Rosa Cardigan?”
She was still half smiling, as she glanced at him, though he could see that the smile had nothing to do with him.
“I’m happy because I see the end of it,” she said.
“What end?” he asked her.
She made a quick gesture, as though the thing were too obvious to call for more explanation.
“You help them take me back to Mexico. Once there, I can be legally robbed. Once robbed, I’ll be free entirely. And then I can come back!”
“Ah,” said Christian. “To Brender? Then you come back to him?”
“I do,” she said.
“Does he know that?”
“No. He ought to know it, but he doesn’t.”
“An outlaw?” said Christian. “My poor girl, what a sad future for you — to be married to an outlaw!”
She merely laughed.
“Now I should think,” said Christian, “that you’d cast an eye on the hero of the two, the great Silver, the terrible man. Why not?”
She amazed him by saying: “Perhaps I would. But I found Rap Brender first. And there’s no space left in me. Besides, Silver is too grim. I think of him still, half smiling, and his step gliding, and the gray marks above his temples, like horns. I’d be afraid of him — as you are!”
“Yes,” said Christian, with a sudden need for confession of the latent terror within him, “I’m afraid of him. Otherwise it would not be so important that he must die. We’ve shaken him off now. He’ll not interfere again, I imagine. And when I come back from Mexico — ”
He opened his hand, then closed the fingers slowly together. And she watched him, fascinated, well understanding that in his thought he was crushing out a human life.
“And you wouldn’t turn back if he followed?” she asked. “You wouldn’t turn back to — to crush him?”
“Blondy and I,” said Christian in his gentle voice, “are the escort of a rich fleet of merchant ships. Of course we won’t risk a fight that we can run from. Not until the cargoes are safely in some harbor.”
Her glance wandered away from him and far to the side and the rear where a small cloud of dust was rising; it might have been lifted by a whirl in the dead air of the desert. No, it was persisting.
Barry Christian followed the direction of her eyes. He saw that continuing little puff of dust, stopped his horse, and drawing out a pair of field glasses, stared long. The four went on from him.
He remained behind with the studious glass fixed on the target. He saw it move. He saw the head of the dust cloud rolling. And then, beneath it, he made out two small forms. As his gaze focused more carefully, he could distinguish the sheen of one of the horses, like metal, like gold, in fact.
That was enough for Christian. He came up at a gallop and joined the others.
“Freshen up this pace,” he said. “Let’s have a real trot. Break it for a lope, when your bones begin to rattle loose. But keep to the trot as long as you can. We may need everything that we can get out of these horses. Because Brender and Silver are coming up with us. There they are, over yonder. If they’re in striking distance by nightfall, something is likely to happen to us.”
So the rate of travel was raised. The cracking trot shook the riders from head to foot. The saddles creaked and groaned. The horses began to blacken and then to drip with sweat. Perspiration soaked through the shirts and the coats of the riders and left dark stains, rimmed around with white edgings of salt. Before them the desert was covered with dim reddish haze that blurred all things but gave no shelter against the sun. And there was no shade. The greasewood stretched, here and there, like a faint smoke near the ground. The mesquite bushes held up the edges of their leaves to cleave the terrible blaze of the sun. There was no wind to cool the body or help breathing. They were in a moving caldron. The dust they raised was the steam of the pot. And they cooked as the mustangs trotted on, jolting the breath from their bodies.
It was forced march. Now and then they halted, and the dust rose slowly, then began to settle again. Sweat continued to run on the horses, but the moisture on the outer hair disappeared almost at once, and the animals turned gray with salt. The dry air and the fierceness of the sun sucked at the very forces of the body. It seemed to be drawing up the life through the throat. It was a time when they could have ridden with a canteen in the hand, constantly sipping but never keeping very far ahead of the drain of the heat and the dry
ness.
Yet none of them attempted large inroads on the water supply. Their own needs for water were small compared with their need of life itself. And if the little dust cloud in the rear were able to come up with them, bullets would begin to sing.
Blondy could stand the thing no longer. He called to his chief and when Christian came up, exclaimed:
“There’s four males here, and they’re running away from two gents that are all alone!”
He glared fiercely at Christian, but his leader merely smiled.
“Murcio can use a gun; Santos is an excellent shot,” said Christian. “And they both will fight when the need comes. But the need doesn’t come until we’ve burned up the horseflesh.”
“I don’t sort of foller that,” commented Blondy.
“When there’s long-range shooting, anything is likely to happen,” said Christian. “If a lucky shot hits me, I’m out. It won’t need killing. Any sort of a wound will make the fellow that’s hit drop out of the race. If a bullet snags you, the same thing happens. That’s all. And if one of us goes down, the two Mexicans are likely to lose heart. They’re likely to scatter to either side and leave the sole survivor carrying on — with the girl on his hands. Does that picture appeal to you?”
“I never knew you to turn your back on no two gents before,” said Blondy grimly.
“Ah, Blondy,” said Christian, “the fact is that you never saw me convoying merchandise across a desert before!”
Blondy was silenced. He turned his eyes toward the north, where the feet of the mountains were lost behind the mist, but their blue shoulders and their pale heads were clear against the sky. He looked south and saw nothing but the dancing heat waves that rose from the surface of the plain. And turning, he stared straight into the face of the girl.
She was the least exhausted of the troop; she actually rode with a faint smile that was rather in her eyes than on her lips.
