by Brand, Max
He brooded gloomily on that, as he stood beside Tonio watching the gradual subduing of the fire.
Then he said: “We’d better go back, because they’re putting out the fire, Tonio, and they’ll come straight for the Monterey house like so many hawks. It’s war to the finish, now. Because the Cross and Snake is on the forehead of Hank Drummon.”
They hurried back to the horses, mounted, and fled through the darkness, down the slope to the tarnished silver of the ford, with a few bright stars burning in the quiet waters of the margin. They put out those stars as they entered the stream. They came out on the farther bank and galloped, while Tonio shouted through the wind of the riding:
“Is it true, señor? Have you put the mark on Drummon?”
Silvertip waved his hand in acquiescence. He heard the Mexican break out into a wild, drunken song, swinging himself from side to side in the saddle with the rhythm of the music. It was a sort of laughing madman that accompanied Silver across the darkness and into the stern ravine which the house of Monterey overpeered, now, with a few lighted windows.
Only when Tonio came near to the house did he master himself, and as he dismounted in the entrance patio, he was as calm as ever. The same two vaqueros who had helped Silver depart, were now on hand to welcome him. But they gave him hardly a glance. Their gaping, their startled eyes, were all for Tonio. They insisted on touching him with their hands.
Then they heard the story of the brand that had been cut on the forehead of Drummon and seemed to go mad, as Tonio had been during the ride across the valley.
Some of them began to dance and yell on the spot. A few more reckless ones burst open the wine cellar and rolled out a keg which they staved in, ladling out great dripping portions to all who asked.
The sleeping children, wakened by the riot, began to run down into the patio. The domestics were already there. The fierce, slender vaqueros poured in. Some one began to ring the great wide-mouthed bell which gave the signal of alarm and joy to the lands and the people of Monterey. Festival rang through the air; and in the midst of it, Silvertip saw the girl come out into the patio with Monterey.
She had on a black mantilla. She had on a black dress, too, with a red rose at her shoulder. As Silver watched her, he thought she was coming toward him — that she had singled him out, so that she could praise him for what he had done. But she paused, meeting him with her eyes only.
Monterey went to the first horse that stood near by, and swung up into the stirrup, standing there at ease in spite of the wincings and the prancing of the mustang which felt its withers wrung by the twisting weight.
He called out, and the crowd fell silent.
He was saying: “This is a good time for drunkenness and noise making! The brand is on Drummon now, and he’ll be here soon. He has the law in his pocket. He can do as he pleases, unless the men of Monterey are wide awake. Tonio! Drive them out of the patio! Whip them out, if you have to. Get them back to watch posts. You fellows who have sworn you would die for me — you, Juan — you, José — Orthez — do you want the house knocked down about our ears? You knew there was reason to be on watch, to-day; there is a hundred times more reason now. A million times more!”
They obeyed him suddenly and cheerfully. Nothing could cool their spirits now. They were like an army which has been trembling on the verge of defeat, and which is now restored to a hope of victory.
Silvertip saw them scurry away, each to an appointed post, to take turn and turn about during the watch. For his own part, he felt that Mexican eyes and ears could be trusted more than his own.
They went into the big hall together, Monterey, and Silver, and the girl. They entered the library, where two lamps threw yellow pools on the floor without really penetrating the gloom. The girl had paused by the door.
“Come in, Julia,” said Don Arturo.
“I am going to bed,” she said.
“Going to bed before we hear from our friend the full story of what he has done?”
She kept drawing back a little as though she were afraid. There was something about her that made Silver want to go straight up to her and look into her face. But an odd constraint held him back.
“I don’t think he’ll talk about it,” said Julia Monterey. “And I have to go to bed. I have a headache.”
“Headache?” exclaimed Monterey. “Headache? Where’s the Monterey blood in you? Now that you know the Drummon wears the mark — you talk of headache? Haven’t you — ”
He broke off suddenly, and then added: “Well, my dear, go along then, and good night.”
“Good night,” she said. “And Señor Silver, good night.”
She went out; the door closed noiselessly behind her.
“What’s the matter?” asked Silver. “There’s something wrong with her. What is it?”
Monterey shrugged his shoulders. “What does it matter? I want to talk with you of the great thing you have done, my son. I want to know every step you made, and every gesture of your hand. Tonio is telling the peons his story, and the vaqueros are there, too, listening. Let me sit here and listen to you? Glory comes back to my house, and you have brought it!”
“I’ve told what happened,” said Silver. “There’s no more than that, and I’m no good at descriptions. But what’s the matter with the Señorita Julia? Do you know?”
“She is afraid,” said Monterey.
“Afraid? Of what?”
“Of you,” said the old man.
The body of Silver jerked straight in his chair.
“You don’t know why?” asked Monterey.
“I’ve no idea. What have I done to her?”
“Fair women, and brave men — that is the old story,” said Monterey. “She has gone away for fear her eyes should tell you things that she would not speak with her lips. My friend, suppose that you seek her to-morrow, it would not be hard for you to learn what she knows.”
Silver sat like a stone, staring.
Old Monterey stood up, moved to another chair, and sat again, leaning far forward.
“You have no real name — you hardly seem to have a country. What is it that drives you around the world?” asked Monterey.
“A hard thing to name,” answered Silver. “The hope of what lies around the corner. You understand?”
“A little. Tell me more.”
“The other side of the mountain always seems to be best; the man I haven’t met is the fellow I want for a friend; the town I haven’t seen is the place I want to go to; and the house I’m not in is the one I want to live in. Does that give you an answer?”
“That gives me an answer,” agreed Monterey, frowning. “And of women, also? I would not offer you Julia, except that she seems ready to offer herself. But now I can say that I am old, that the name of my family dies with me, and that your blood, señor, though it is not that of my race, would be nearer and dearer than that of any other man. If you marry Julia, you can be as a king on a throne, and in her there is nothing but courage, faith, and truth!”
He paused, and Silver fought to find an answer. He could live here, it seemed, a baronial life, freed from all care. The grandeur of old Monterey and the beauty of the girl moved him.
But suddenly he was saying: “You offer me everything that a man can give. But I can’t take it. I can’t change the fever in the blood, señor. I have to keep hunting; there always seems to be something waiting beyond the rim of the horizon.”
“It’s a foolish thought,” said Monterey gently. “One person is about as good as another, and one place is about as good as another, also.”
“I know that, too,” said Silvertip. “That’s common sense. But it doesn’t keep me from chasing around the world hunting, and hunting. That’s why I’ve left my name behind me. It would tie me down. I have a father and a mother, a brother and sisters. If I used my name, they’d locate me, before long. They’d look me up. It would tear my heart! They’ve looked me up before this, and I’ve gone back home and loved it for a week or a month.
But then one day I wake up in the middle of the night, and the four walls of the room take hold of me like four hands, and hold me down. Then I know I have to go, and I go — before morning. I can’t tell when the impulse will come. It simply grabs me — and then I’ve got to move on.”
“No friends?”
“No close ones,” said Silver.
“No family.”
“I’ve lost it for good and all now.”
“No home?”
“No, only a wish for all those things that keep me scampering. I’m a fool. I know that. But something has hold on me. I have to keep going on.”
“Like the wandering Jew,” said Monterey gravely.
“Well, I suppose there’s something in what you say. Is there a curse on me, too?”
“You’ll get over it,” Monterey answered. “You think that you’re condemned for life and as a matter of fact — Why, you’re not thirty!”
“No,” said Silvertip.
“Then you’re simply being young — that’s all. Good night! Go to your room and rest. The minute that there’s so much as the stamp of a horse or the whistle of a bird, we’ll call you. But we’re all brave and strong now, because we have you with us.”
Silver went to his room, closed the door and threw himself, dressed as he was, on the bed. The lamp still shone, but he was not troubled by that light in his eyes, as he began to think into his past and look blindly forward into his future.
He remembered what Monterey had said — that he was simply young — and it was like a promise of happiness and security to him. Under that influence he went suddenly to sleep. When he awakened, the rose of the day was pouring through the window, gunshots were sounding in the distance, and a hand beat furiously against his door.
CHAPTER XX
Bandini’s Plan
THE gunshots no longer boomed distantly on the ear, by the time Silvertip had raced down to the patio. An outcry came from the watchers beyond the house; hoofbeats crackled over rocks or beat more dimly on the ground. And here came José Bandini with a small cavalcade, and a horse litter that bore a large, swathed burden.
Through the wide arch of the patio gate came José Bandini first, lean, erect, graceful in the saddle.
Utter loathing brought a faint smile to the lips of Silvertip. He turned his back on that new-come hero, and went into the house.
He did not see José Bandini again until just before the burial ceremony, when with all the other adherents of Monterey, Silvertip entered the chapel and filed past the body of the dead youth.
There was no alteration, it seemed to him, since he had last seen that face. It was still gray marble with a faint swarthy tinge of yellow in it, and about the eyes a shadow of blueness. There was the same sense of defeated weakness about the features; there was the same smile.
The hands were crossed on the breast. He touched them, and the thrill of mortal cold ran up through his fingers to his heart, as he recalled the vow he had made over the dead man.
Two parts of it were fulfilled. But before the third part was accomplished, all the mourners in this room might be dead.
He turned, and encountered the steady, strange glance of Julia Monterey, reading his mind as she had read it more than once before.
He saw José Bandini, watching him like a bright-eyed snake, and Arturo Monterey with head borne high and blank, dreadful eyes.
Afterward, they went down into the crypt beneath the chapel floor, where all the Montereys had been buried for generations. There they saw the coffin inserted in the wall, and the small door sealed over with cement. Even then, Arturo Monterey did not break down. And directly that they had come up to the patio, he called Silvertip and José Bandini to him. He took one of them on either arm, and walked up and down the patio with them.
“My friends,” he said, “I know that there is bad blood between you. But this is the time to forget it. This is the last moment of my life, beginning. I know, with a very clear knowledge, that I shall not endure long. There is only one purpose remaining for which I can exist. You understand what that purpose is. I have made a vow, and you understand its nature.”
He freed one of his hands, and touched the black band of cloth that encircled his forehead.
“Two parts have been accomplished,” he went on. “You have done both things, Señor Silver, and it is a kind miracle of Heaven that lets you be still alive to walk here with me. But for the last of the three parts of my vow, no one man can suffice in action. It will need the strength and the wisdom and the courage of all of us. I don’t know how I have deserved to have such friends gathered about me. But here you stand, and there is only one way for us to meet success. You must join your hands, my friends.”
He took their right hands and tried to draw them together.
José Bandini murmured: “Everything at your will, Señor Monterey.”
But Silvertip shook his head.
He answered: “There are reasons that even you would not understand, Señor Monterey, why I cannot take the hand of Bandini. Let me walk aside with him, and I’ll explain matters.”
So he went off, with Bandini walking slowly at his side.
“I have no wish to take your hand, Silver,” said Bandini. “I’d rather see the hand rotted off your arm by fire than take it in my own. Only, to please the old man — ”
“You murdered Pedro Monterey,” said Silvertip.
“You lie,” said Bandini. His lean face wrinkled with a sneer. “Your gun killed poor Pedro,” he said.
“My gun did the work, but you did the managing of it,” said Silvertip. “How did he come to have your cloak?”
“We had been arguing a little,” said Bandini, with detestable smugness, “and I gave him the cloak, at the end of the argument, as a sign that we were reconciled friends again. That was all, in fact. A gift out of the kindness of my heart.”
“Bandini,” said Silvertip, “you knew that I’d look for you at that special hour that night. You were afraid. And you passed the cloak to young Pedro Monterey in the hope that I’d mistake him for you, during the night. And your idea worked out.”
“You say this, Silver,” answered Bandini, shrugging his shoulders. “But what you say means nothing. Every gringo is a natural liar.”
“I am going to kill you, Bandini,” said Silvertip gravely. “I warn you again. I’m going to kill you the moment that Monterey’s work is done.”
“Why do you wait?” asked Bandini. “Here is a time now. I am ready for you, Silver, night or day!”
Silvertip looked at him with curious eyes. “No,” he answered, shaking his head. “You’re not ready, José. You’ll never be ready. There’s a curdling of your heart when you think of having to stand up to me.”
“D’you think so? Try me now, eye to eye!” exclaimed Bandini.
Silvertip smiled. “You know that I’m tied to my place here, with Monterey,” he answered. “That makes you feel safe. But don’t be a fool, Bandini. Sooner or later I’ll have it out with you, and the sooner the better! Not here. Monterey wouldn’t allow that. But one of these days, we’ll meet outside the house.”
“The minute you say,” answered Bandini, “I’ll be ready for you!”
They parted on that note.
Old Arturo Monterey moved calmly through the day. The sense of destiny about to be achieved never left him. There was in him a perfect surety that his vow would be accomplished, and Drummon delivered into his hands for the final vengeance to be taken. After that, he himself would die.
And he was ready for the end. Twenty-five years of brooding upon one purpose had perhaps unsettled his mind a little, and now the death of his son, the pinching out of the line of Monterey, left him ready to hurry to his grave after his great purpose had been accomplished.
For some time, there was no sign of danger from the Drummons. Perfect peace seemed to fill the bright days, and when scouting parties went out beyond the grazing grounds of the cattle, they rarely sighted so much as a herdsman attendant of Dru
mmon.
No one was deceived. The danger was present, but merely delayed, and the Drummons were preparing their blow.
To Silvertip, it was a strange time. He had become, in the house of Monterey, a great figure. The Mexicans could not accept him as a friend; the age-long prejudice was too compelling for that. But they could look up to him as a force without which they could hardly win their war. So they attended him with respectful glances whenever he appeared, and he could not stir from the house without having two or three of the half wild vaqueros appear to join in his company of their own volition. Above all, Juan Perez was his shadow.
It was the second day after the burial of Pedrillo, that José Bandini encountered Silver in the patio and said to him, with a glance that moved grimly up and down his body: “Señor Silver, there is one great thing true in this world — that we hate one another. A gringo, like a swine, is able to lie in the mud of his passion; but I am not. I cannot sleep at night, Señor Silver, for thinking of the moment when you and I shall be face to face. And I have made a plan.”
“Go on,” said Silvertip.
“It’s a simple one, and a good one. If the two of us fight near the house, the one who survives will be known as the killer. That is bad. When I have killed you, I lose my chance to get a reward out of the money box of the mad old man, Monterey. If you kill me, he will detest you, because he thinks that Pedro loved me. But suppose that we ride out, to-day, and come onto the lands of the Drummons — onto the verge of them. And suppose that we fight out our fight there, Silver? Why, then the one of us who remains alive can gallop back and talk about an ambush laid by the Drummons, and how their bullets killed the man!”
Silvertip scanned the face of Bandini with care. And then, suddenly, a fury of passionate hatred subdued all the soberer part of his mind and made him throw away suspicion.
