by Max Brand
Then, as if a shadow in which there is warmth had crossed him, he knew that she was leaning above him, close, closer; he could hear her breath. In a rush of tenderness, he forgot her beauty of eyes and round, strong throat, and supple body--he forgot, and was immersed, like an eagle winging into a radiant sunset cloud, in a sense only of her being, quite divorced from the flesh, the mysterious rare power which made her Sally Fortune, and would not change no matter what body might contain it.
It was blindingly intense, and when his senses cleared he knew that she was gone. He felt as if he had awakened from a night full of dreams more vivid than life--dreams which left him too weak to cope with reality.
For a time he dared not move. He was feeling for himself like a man who fumbles his way down a dark passage dangerous with obstructions. At last it was as if his hand touched the knob of a door; he swung it open, entered a room full of dazzling light--himself. He shrank back from it; closed his eyes against what he might see.
All he knew, then, was an overpowering will to see her. He turned, inch by inch, little degree by degree, knowing that if, when he turned, he looked into her eyes, the end would rush upon them, overwhelm them, carry them along like straws on the flooding river. At last his head was turned; he looked.
She lay on her back, smiling as she slept. One arm hung down from the bunk and the graceful fingers trailed, palm up, on the floor, curling a little, as if she had just relaxed her grasp on something. And down past her shoulder, half covering the whiteness of her arm, fled the torrent of brown hair, with the firelight playing through it like a sunlit mist.
He rose, and dressed with a deadly caution, for he knew that he must go at once, partly for her sake that he must be seen apart from her this night--partly because he knew that he must leave and never come back.
He had hit upon the distinctive feature of the girl--a purity as thin and clear as the air of the uplands in which she drew breath. He stooped and smoothed down the blankets of his bunk, for no trace of him must be seen if any other man should come during this night. He would go far away--see and be seen--apart from Sally Fortune. He picked up his saddle.
Before he departed he leaned low above her as she must have done above him, until the dark shadow of lashes was tremulous against her cheek. Then he straightened and stole step by step across the floor, to the door, to the night; all the myriad small white eyes of the heavens looked down to him in hushed surprise.
Chapter XXXVI
JERRY WOOD
When he was at the old Drew place before, Logan had told him of Jerry Wood's place, five miles to the north among the hills; and to this he now directed his horse, riding at a merciless speed, as if he strove to gain, from the swift succession of rocks and trees that whirled past him, new thoughts to supplant the ones which already occupied him.
He reached in a short time a little rise of ground below which stretched a darkly wooded hollow, and in the midst the trees gave back from a small house, a two-storied affair, with not a light showing. He wished to announce himself and his name at this place under the pretence of asking harbourage for the brief remainder of the night. The news of what he had done at Drew's place could not have travelled before him to Wood's house; but the next day it would be sure to come, and Wood could say that he had seen Bard--alone--the previous night. It would be a sufficient shield for the name of Sally Fortune in that incurious region.
So he banged loudly at the door.
Eventually a light showed in an upper window and a voice cried: "Who's there?"
"Anthony Bard."
"Who the devil is Anthony Bard?"
"Lost in the hills. Can you give me a place to sleep for the rest of the night? I'm about done up."
"Wait a minute."
Voices stirred in the upper part of the house; the lantern disappeared; steps sounded, descending the stairs, and then the door was unbarred and held a cautious inch ajar. The ray of light jumped out at Bard like an accusing arm.
Evidently a brief survey convinced Jerry Wood that the stranger was no more than what he pretended. He opened the door wide and stepped back.
"Come in."
Bard moved inside, taking off his hat.
"How'd you happen to be lost in the hills?"
"I'm a bit of a stranger around here, you see."
The other surveyed him with a growing grin.
"I guess maybe you are. Sure, we'll put you up for the night. Where's your hoss?"
He went out and raised the lantern above his head to look. The light shone back from the lustrous wide eyes of the grey.
Wood turned to Bard.
"Seems to me I've seen that hoss."
"Yes. I bought it from Duffy out at Drew's place."
"Oh! Friend of Mr. Drew?"
Half a life spent on the mountain-desert had not been enough to remove from Drew that distinguishing title of respect. The range has more great men than it has "misters."
"Not exactly a friend," answered Bard.
"Sail right. Long's you know him, you're as good as gold with me. Come on along to the barn and we'll knock down a feed for the hoss."
He chuckled as he led the way.
"For that matter, there ain't any I know that can say they're friends to William Drew, though there's plenty that would like to if they thought they could get away with it. How's he lookin'?"
"Why, big and grey."
"Sure. He never changes none. Time and years don't mean nothin' to Drew. He started bein' a man when most of us is in short pants; he'll keep on bein' a man till he goes out. He ain't got many friends--real ones--but I don't know of any enemies, neither. All the time he's been on the range Drew has never done a crooked piece of work. Every decent man on the range would take his word ag'in'--well, ag'in' the Bible, for that matter."
They reached the barn at the end of this encomium, and Bard unsaddled his horse. The other watched him critically.
"Know somethin' about hosses, eh?"
"A little."
"When I seen you, I put you down for a tenderfoot. Don't mind, do you? The way you talked put me out."
"For that matter, I suppose I am a tenderfoot."
"Speakin' of tenderfoots, I heard of one over to Eldara the other night that raised considerable hell. You ain't him, are you?"
He lifted the lantern again and fixed his keen eyes on Bard.
"However," he went on, lowering the lantern with an apologetic laugh, "I'm standin' here askin' questions and chatterin' like a woman, and what you're thinkin' of is bed, eh? Come on with me."
Upstairs in the house he found Bard a corner room with a pile of straw in the corner by way of a mattress. There he spread out some blankets, wished his guest a good sleep, and departed.
Left to himself, Anthony stretched out flat on his back. It had been a wild, hard day, but he felt not the slightest touch of weariness; all he wished was to relax his muscles for a few moments. Moreover, he must be away from the house with the dawn-first, because Sally Fortune might waken, guess where he had gone, and follow him; secondly because the news of what had happened at Drew's place might reach Wood at any hour.
So he lay trying to fight the thought of Sally from his mind and concentrate on some way of getting back to Drew without riding the gauntlet of the law.
The sleep which stole upon him came by slow degrees; or, rather, he was not fully asleep, when a sound outside the house roused him to sharp consciousness compared with which his drowsiness had been a sleep.
It was a knocking at the door, not loud, but repeated. At the same time he heard Jerry Wood cursing softly in a neighbouring room, and then the telltale creak of bedsprings.
The host was rousing himself a second time that night. Or, rather, it was morning now, for when Anthony sat up he saw that the hills were stepping out of the shadows of the night, black, ugly shapes revealed by a grey background of the sky. A window went up noisily.
"Am I runnin' a hotel?" roared Jerry Wood. "Ain't I to have no sleep no more? Who are ye?"
A lowered, muttering voice answered.
"All right," said Jerry, changing his tone at once. "I'll come down."
His steps descended the noisy stairs rapidly; the door creaked. Then voices began again outside the house, an indistinct mumble, rising to one sharp height in an exclamation.
Almost at once steps again sounded on the stairs, but softly now. Bard went quietly to the door, locked it, and stole back to the window. Below it extended the roof of a shed, joining the main body of the house only a few feet under his window and sloping to what could not have been a dangerous distance from the ground. He raised the window-sash.
Yet he waited, something as he had waited for Sally Fortune to speak earlier in the night, with a sense of danger, but a danger which thrilled and delighted him. No game of polo could match suspense like this. Besides, he would be foolish to go before he was sure.
The walls were gaping with cracks that carried the sounds, and now he heard a sibilant whisper with a perfect clearness.
"This is the room."
There was a click as the lock was tried.
"Locked, damn it!"
"Shut up, Butch. Jerry, have you got a bar, or anything? We'll pry it down and break in on him before he can get in action."
"You're a fool, McNamara. That feller don't take a wink to get into action. Sure he didn't hear you when you hollered out the window? That was a fool move, Wood."
"I don't think he heard. There wasn't any sound from his room when I passed it goin' downstairs. Think of the nerve of this bird comin' here to roost after what he done."
"He didn't think we'd follow him so fast."
But Anthony waited for no more. He slipped out on the roof of the shed, lowered himself hand below hand to the edge, and dropped lightly to the ground.
The grey, at his coming, flattened back its ears, as though it knew that more hard work was coming, but he saddled rapidly, led it outside, and rode a short distance into the forest. There he stopped.
His course lay due north, and then a swerve to the side and a straight course west for the ranch of William Drew. If the hounds of the law were so close on his trace, they certainly would never suspect him of doubling back in this manner, and he would have the rancher to himself when he arrived.
Yet still he did not start the grey forward to the north. For to the south lay Sally Fortune, and at the thought of her a singular hollowness came about his heart, a loneliness, not for himself, but for her. Yes, in a strange way all self was blotted from his emotion.
It would be a surrender to turn back--now.
And like a defeated man who rides in a lost cause, he swung the grey to the south and rode back over the trail, his head bowed.
Chapter XXXVII
"TODO ES PERDO"
It was not long after the departure of Bard that Sally Fortune awoke. For a step had creaked on the floor, and she looked up to find Steve Nash standing in the centre of the room with the firelight gloomily about him; behind, blocking the door with his squat figure, stood Shorty Kilrain.
"Where's your side-kicker?" asked Nash. "Where's Bard?"
And looking across the room, she saw that the other bunk was empty. She raised her arms quickly, as if to stifle a yawn, and sat up in the bunk, holding the blanket close about her shoulders. The face she showed to Nash was calmly contemptuous.
"The bird seems to be flown, eh?" she queried.
"Where is he?" he repeated, and made a step nearer.
She knew at last that her power over him as a woman was gone; she caught the danger of his tone, saw it in the steadiness of the eyes he fixed upon her. Behind was a great, vague feeling of loss, the old hollowness about the heart. It made her reckless of consequences; and when Nash asked, "Is he hangin' around behind the corner, maybe?" she cried:
"If he was that close you'd have sense enough to run, Steve."
The snarl of Nash showed his teeth.
"Out with it. The tenderfoot ain't left his woman fur away. Where's he gone? Who's he gone to shoot in the back? Where's the hoss he started out to rustle?"
"Kind of peeved, Nash, eh?"
One step more he made, towering above her.
"I've done bein' polite, Sally. I've asked you a question."
"And I've answered you: I don't know."
"Sally, I'm patient; I don't mean no wrong to you. What you've been to me I'm goin' to bust myself tryin' to forget; but don't lie to me now."
Such a far greater woe kept up a throbbing ache in the hollow of her throat that now she laughed, laughed slowly, deliberately. He leaned, caught her wrist in a crushing pressure.
"You demon; you she-devil!"
She whirled out of the bunk, the blanket caught about her like the toga of some ancient Roman girl; and as she moved she had swept up something heavy and bright from the floor.
All this, and still his grip was on her left arm.
"Drop your hand, Nash."
With a falling of the heart, she knew that he did not fear her gun; instead, a light of pleasure gleamed in his eyes and his lower jaw thrust out.
She would never forget his face as he looked that moment.
"Will you tell me?"
"I'll see you in hell first."
By that wrist he drew her resistlessly toward him, and his other arm went about her and crushed her close; hate, shame, rage, love were in the contorted face above her. She pressed the muzzle of her revolver against his side.
"You're in beckoning distance of that hell, Steve!"
"You she-wolf--shoot and be damned! I'd live long enough to strangle you."
"You know me, Steve; don't be a fool."
"Know you? Nobody knows you. And God Almighty, Sally, I love you worse'n ever; love the very way you hate me. Come here!"
He jerked her closer still, leaned; and she remembered then that Anthony had never kissed her. She said:
"You're safe; you know he can't see you."
He threw her from him and stood snarling like a dog growling for the bone it fears to touch because there may be poison in the taste--a starving dog, and a bone full of toothsome marrow which has only to be crushed in order that it may be enjoyed.
"I'm wishin' nothin' more than that he could see me."
"Then you're a worse fool than I took you for, Steve. You know he'd go through ten like you."
"There ain't no man has gone through me yet."
"But he would. You know it. He's not stronger, maybe not so strong. But he was born to win, Steve; he's like--he's like Drew, in a way. He can't fail."
"If I wrung that throat of yours," he said, "I know I couldn't get out of you where he's gone."
"Because I don't know, you see."
"Don't know?"
"He's given me the slip."
"You!"
"Funny, ain't it? But he has. Thought I couldn't ride fast enough to keep up with him, maybe. He's gone on east, of course."
"That's another lie."
"Well, you know."
"I do."
His voice changed.
"Has he really beat it away from you, Sally?"
She watched him with a strange, sneering smile. Then she stepped close.
"Lean your ear down to me, Steve."
He obeyed.
"I'll tell you what ought to make you happy. He don't care for me no more than I care for--you, Steve."
He straightened again, wondering.
"And you?"
"I threw myself at him. I dunno why I'm tellin' you, except it's right that you should know. But he don't want me; he's gone on without me."
"An' you like him still?"
She merely stared, with a sick smile.
"My God!" he murmured, shaken deep with wonder. "What's he made of?"
"Steel and fire--that's all."
"Listen, Sally, forget what I've done, and--"
"Would you drop his trail, Steve?"
He cursed through his set teeth.
"If that's it--no. It's him or me, and I'm su
re to beat him out. Afterwards you'll forget him."
"Try me."
"Girls have said that before. I'll wait. There ain't no one but you for me--damn you--I know that. I'll get him first, and then I'll wait."
"Ten like you couldn't get him."
"I've six men behind me."
She was still defiant, but her colour changed.
"Six, Sally, and he's out here among the hills, not knowing his right from his left. I ask you: has he got a chance?"
She answered: "No; not one."
He turned on his heel, beckoned to Kilrain, who had stood moveless through the strange dialogue, and went out into the night.
As they mounted he said: "We're going straight for the place where I told Butch Conklin I'd meet him. Then the bunch of us will come back."
"Why waste time?"
"Because he's sure to come back. Shorty, after a feller has seen Sally smile--the way she can smile--he couldn't keep away. I _know_!"
They rode off at a slow trot, like men who have resigned themselves to a long journey, and Sally watched them from the door. She sat down, crosslegged, before the fire, and stirred the embers, and strove to think.
But she was not equipped for thinking, all her life had been merely action, action, action, and now, as she strove to build out some logical sequence and find her destiny in it, she failed miserably, and fell back upon herself. She was one of those single-minded people who give themselves up to emotion rarely, but when they do their whole body, their whole soul burns in the flame.
Into her mind came a phrase she had heard in her childhood. On the outskirts of Eldara there was a little shack owned by a Mexican--JosT, he was called, and nothing else, "Greaser" JosT. One night an alarm of fire was given in Eldara, and the whole populace turned out to enjoy the sight; it was a festival occasion, in a way. It was the house of Greaser JosT.
The cowpunchers manned a bucket line, but the source of water was far away, the line too long, and the flames gained faster than they could be quenched. All through the work of fire-fighting Greaser JosT was everywhere about the house, flinging buckets of water through the windows into the red furnace within; his wife and the two children stood stupidly, staring, dumb. But in the end, when the fire was towering above the roof of the house, roaring and crackling, the Mexican suddenly raised a long arm and called to the bucket line, "It is done. Se+-ors, I thank you."
