by Max Brand
OLD
CARVER RANCH
Max Brand®
Copyright © 1922 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1950 by Dorothy Faust.
The name Max Brand® is a registered trademark with the United States Patent and Trademark Office and cannot be used for any purpose without express written permission.
© 2013 by Golden West Literary Agency
E-book published in 2018 by Blackstone Publishing
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-4708-6134-6
Library e-book ISBN 978-1-4708-6133-9
Fiction/Westerns
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
Chapter One
Be they never so courageous in ordinary circumstances, there are few horses that can be trained in such a way that they keep a steady nerve in the high places, but Major was one of those brilliant exceptions that prove a rule. He came to the very edge of the precipice to snuff the keen air of the cañon, and then hooked a forehoof over the rock and stretched himself like a cat, while the sunlight slipped and glided over the black velvet of his hide and modeled the shoulder muscles in long flutings.
“Now, look here, Major,” said the rider, a man who was as shaggy as his horse was sleek, “them treetops ain’t going to suit my taste at all. You young fool, keep clear of this bunch of empty air, will you?”
The words were fierce, but the tone in which they were uttered was entirely nonchalant and the rider swung forward to see what lay below. He saw the cliff drop sheer for a hundred feet then put out a steep apron that gradually broadened and decreased in pitch until it rolled out into the beginnings of hills, sliced and carved where the storms had worked gullies.
But what interested the big rider most as he leaned forward was a dark line of shrubs, apparently about knee-high and dipping in and out well down on the slope of these hills, keeping a front as even as though men had planted the hedge. It was timberline that the rider saw, and that was so welcome to him. Here the trees had struggled to the highest point of which they were capable, and here they paused, a tangle of dwarfed veterans perhaps a foot and a half high and five centuries in age. Spruces, pygmy pines, artistic willows, and a few other species made up that advance guard. The line swung on at an even height on either side of the rider. Not a shrub stepped out in advance of the phalanx, for in a single season storms would have harrowed it to death.
The rider regarded this timberline with infinite satisfaction, and then turned and glanced over his shoulder. It was easy to explain his pleasure by following that backward glance. A dozen ragged peaks climbed toward the sky, each as shorn as mountains can be above timberline, whipped by storms, clothed only in winter snow. Beyond and among those visible peaks, Tom Keene was recalling cañons and breakneck slopes in the summit region over which he had passed. No wonder, then, that his eye dropped gratefully to the forested sides of the mountains farther down, where the sturdy lodgepole pines began at ten thousand feet and continued in dense groves to two thousand feet lower, where their rather pale green merged gradually in bigger and nobler evergreens.
Tom Keene was not satisfied with a general glance, however. He uncased a pair of field glasses and probed the distant woods with them until, half a mile down in sheer descent and five miles in an air line, the glasses focused on a little shack barely distinguishable in the distance and among the trees. But no sooner had he marked this wretched little habitation than the horseman drove the glasses back in their case and whirled black Major away from the cliff. A moment later they were laboring down the precipitous descent. And on the way Tom Keene was thinking pleasantly: The old man’ll never know me. Never in the world.
Far different, indeed, was the seventeen-year-old stripling who had left that same shack ten years before. The smooth face was now clothed in a black beard that began close beneath the eyes and terminated in a square trim just below the chin. Six feet and two inches of bony frame had broadened and deepened and hardened until Tom Keene stripped to a hundred and ninety pounds of iron-hard muscle.
But the physical changes had been the least of all. It was his brain that had developed. Greater, far greater, than the distance his eye glanced down to the shack from the mountain top, was the distance his brain looked back to find his younger self starting into the world for adventure greater than he could find in practicing the arts of woodcraft or tending his father’s line of traps in the winter or descending into the lower valleys of the cattle range to work in spring and fall roundups.
So great was the change that he could hardly believe that he was the same man. It was another identity that had become his. Somewhere in the ten years that other self had died, and the new Tom Keene had been born into the world, resourceful, cool-nerved, skeptical. He had worked with his hands ten years before, but now those hands were no longer degraded by the cut and burn of a rope because they must be kept supple for the cards—supple and practiced for the cards so that a separate intelligence seemed to dwell in each fingertip. And the world was a most easy place to make one’s way in if one had sufficient wits for it. It was so easy that it was criminal to keep entirely to the flowery path. Tom Keene, for instance, found money but no amusement in playing cards with greenhorns. And therefore he never did it. He chose, rather, to match his wits against men who were as much professionals as he, shrewd, fox-eyed men who could put their emotions behind a mask and keep them safely out of sight during the entire course of a card game.
Falling in with such as these, he found that his course was to play the part of the rough-mannered simpleton until he had inveigled the expert into a game, and until the expert, as always happened, had purposely lost a few stupid hands—bait money. But, when he began to trim Tom Keene, he found the yokel transformed into a dexterous trickster. The play might run very high in an encounter such as this—eagle against eagle—and, though Tom usually won, he occasionally lost, also—lost frequently enough to keep his money reserve low. He knew that he would always continue to lose, and that he could never be a truly great gambler, because he could never become an entirely heartless machine. The beard masked him somewhat, but nothing could mask the fires in those black eyes of his, once his enthusiasm was roused. If he kept to the game, it was not so much because he had the usual gambler’s dream of the “million-dollar tableful of boobs,” as it was that he loved the cards for their own sake.
Tom liked a straight game, letting chance favor who it would, but most of all he loved to sit in with three or four of his own kind, each man making the deck all but talk, each perfectly aware that the others cheated, each determined to back his own skill against the best tricks of his competitors, and this battle carried on quietly, with all done smoothly, politely. Such an evening to Tom Keene was like a happy hour to the painter; he felt himself rise to the greatest heights, the inspired heights.
For ten years, then, he had followed the fortunes of life as they came to him by the medium of the gaming table. For ten years he had constantly promised himself to return to the old place, take his father from labors that the aged man must now be growing too feeble to continue, and place him in comfort in some town.
That good thought was the source of the cheery whistle of Tom as Major struck a long, fairly level slope—the last slope leading to the cabin of old Keene—and flew along it, rejoicing in the opportunity to stretch his legs after so many
hours of climbing up and down. But, resolved to surprise old John Keene with his appearance, Tom drew rein a considerable distance from the cabin, dismounted, and, leaving the stallion behind him, stole forward on foot.
John Keene was not in the clearing beside the cabin, however, and, when Tom slipped around to the little horse shed behind the cabin, his father was not there. More than that—the only hay in the little mow was a forkful or two of time-yellowed, musty stuff on the floor. There had not been a horse in the shed for many weeks.
A chill of alarm now spread suddenly through the big man, and, running out, he observed that no wisp of smoke issued from the smokestack that sagged above the top of the shanty. The shutter that secured the window in time of storm hung now from one rotting strap. Behind it, the glass of the window was broken and patched with spider webs. With a shout of dismay, Tom ran to the door, sent it crashing down with a kick, and thundered, “Dad! Where are you?”
And then he saw the old man lying on the bunk. He raised one hand in greeting. That was all his strength sufficed for. A death light, so it seemed to Tom, shone on the haggard features.
Chapter Two
He fell on his knees beside John Keene, overcome by a great pity and a great remorse, and he caught the hands in his. Age had drawn the skin tight on those fingers, but, above all, how cold they were on this joyful spring day, so full of sunshine beyond the door. The whole body of the trapper was so wasted by a hard life and a long one that there now seemed barely a spark burning within and sustaining the misty light that gleamed feebly out of the eyes.
One hand fumbled faintly for freedom, and, as Tom released it, it was raised in a sign that seemed to bid him be quiet. At the same time his father closed his eyes and compressed his lips. Tom knew that the dying man was rallying by tremendous effort to recall so much of life as would permit him to speak a few words to his son before he reached the end of the long trail.
In that interim, not daring to watch the silent struggle, no less bitter because of its silence, Tom looked over the familiar room. It seemed to have shrunk since he last saw it. The little stove that had stood on three legs now stood on none at all, but was supported on a platform of small logs roughly squared by the ax. The gun rack contained the weapons, those which he remembered out of his very infancy, unaltered, and still showing every evidence of care. The axes, bright of edge, were tied in a bundle, backs together. The scrap of rag rug had been tramped upon until that last vestige of the checkered pattern now was gone. He turned to the corner cupboard, in the lower part of which dishes for cooking and eating were kept, and the upper part of which had ever been sacred to a few belongings of his father. Even now he thrilled as he glanced at those upper doors with the dark and polished spot from much fumbling at the keyhole.
Below, he saw the bunk that had been his, and he started on observing the blankets neatly folded and piled on it with the sun-yellowed copy of Ivanhoe on top—exactly as it had been when he left ten years before. So astonished was he by that sight that he automatically touched his thick beard as though he wished to make sure that ten years had indeed elapsed. In the meantime, a faint murmur from the form beside him made him turn.
“Tom,” said the whisper. “Come closer.”
He leaned near to his father. “Keep your grip, Dad,” he said. “I’m back here to stay as long as I can help. Your hard times are over. Lord knows I’ve been a skunk for staying away, but now I’ll make up. Fight hard, Dad. Fight hard and give me a chance to help.”
The old man pressed the face of his son between his trembling hands as though by their touch, rather than the use of his rapidly dimming eyes, he could recognize his boy. “Heaven be praised,” he said. “For two days I’ve wondered why the Lord’s kept me here lingering along like this. But now I see. Tom lad, it’s a pile easier to die when …”
“Who talks of dying?” Tom thundered, leaning still closer, striving, so it seemed, to dart life from his fiery eyes into the body of John Keene, or to supply it with the vibration of his bass voice. “You ain’t going to die. You’re going to live. Remember when you said that you’d never seen five hundred dollars together at one time? Well, listen to this … listen to this.” He tore from his waist a money belt, and he pounded it on the floor with a great jingling so that the whole shanty quivered.
“D’you hear? D’you hear? There’s twice five hundred. And there’s more where it came from. Why, what’re you talking about dying? Here’s something that’ll make your heart warm again, Dad.” And over the bony hands of the sick man he poured a tide of golden coins that cast a faint glow, it seemed, like the light of a sunset.
But John Keene felt the gliding metal and heard the strong voice of his son unmoved. “How come you by all that money?” he murmured. “If I could live to get down into the lowlands and … yes, it sure might be some help to me, Tom, if I ain’t a dying man now. But where’d you get that money?”
A dozen lies leaped to the teeth of Tom Keene. Should he say mining, trapping, cows—there were so many possibilities that he paused, and then he saw that the eye of his father had cleared and was looking into his face like a ray of light plunging into turbid water. And in spite of himself he bowed his head.
“Looks like I ain’t been through enough yet. This had to come before I finished,” the father murmured. “Leastwise, you couldn’t lie to me, Tom, and that’s a tolerable big comfort. I reckon you never took nothing from them that couldn’t help themselves?”
“Never,” Tom said, and he added, “Just keep this talk about dying out of your mind. You’re going to live. I’m going to make you, and I’m going to take care of you …”
“Son,” broke in the dying man, “don’t you know that I can’t take nothing that don’t come out of clean hands?”
“Tell me straight!” cried Tom. “What have you gained by working your heart out all your life? Who’s thought any the more of you for all that?”
“I’ve thought a pile more of myself,” the old trapper said. “And it does me good right now. I’m stepping along in the edge of the night, Tom, and any minute I may step off the cliff and never land back in daylight again. And times like this it sure lays a comfort on a gent’s heart to know that he’s been honest. Besides, by working hard every day and serving God, I’ve laid up a treasure … two treasures, Tom.”
“Treasures?” the son asked incredulously.
“One is a good name,” said the old man. “You can’t find the like or that treasure in gold, my lad. You lay to that. And the other treasure you’ll find yonder, inside of that cupboard. Not now, Tom. Don’t go for it now. Wait till I’m gone, and then you’ll find it. It’s the thing that made me so rich I could give away to other folks all my life. It made me so rich that I wish to heaven, Tom, that you and me could change places … for your sake. Son, when you …” He choked, and Tom caught the meager body in his great arms. “It’s only a step,” the trapper went on, panting now, “but it’s a dark, dark step to be taking, Tom. If only I had some light to show me … if you’d get a …”
He relaxed, and Tom placed the dead body back on the bunk, closed the mild blue eyes, and folded the hands together. Then, stepping across the room, he flung himself down where he had slept so many years and lay quivering, for the grief was to him like a scourging. He writhed under it. Of what use were his big hands now? All the might in his body had not been enough to breathe into his father enough strength to last him another minute of life.
Those ten years that had passed so carelessly, so joyously, now lay like ten burdens on his heart, for while he played in the sun, the old man had been dying. Winter after winter the length of the trap line had shrunk as the power of the trapper diminished. Year by year his earnings dwindled toward a point. He had been forced to give up the horse that had been his link with the life of the town in the lower valley. And, still uncomplaining, trusting to heaven and that great tomorrow of which he had so often spoken in th
e past, he had come at length to the hour of his death.
And the proceeds of a single night of Tom’s work would have kept the old man in comfort for two years. Here an ugly suspicion came to Tom. It brought him sharply to his feet and made him stride to the old kitchen table, in the deep drawers of which the cornmeal and the white flour were kept. He jerked them open with such violence that a faint dust of the meal rose to his nostrils with a sweet odor. But that was all. The tin bottoms of the drawers were of a polished bareness. With sweat rolling down his face, Tom looked back on the emaciated features of the dead man. Was it starvation? He would never know. That ghost could never be laid. But at least bitter want had hurried the end of John Keene.
He went to the cupboard in a daze. The key was not hanging on the string, but that was nothing. He fixed his fingertips under the edge of the door and ripped it open. Treasure? Inside, he swept his hand on bare shelves until he struck a book that he brought out to the light. It tumbled open in his hand, the film-thin pages slipping away on either side, pages of close print. It was a Bible that had opened to the Psalms, and his eye caught on this place: I will sing of loving kindness and justice … The book slipped from the hand of Tom and crushed, face down, against the floor.
“Loving kindness … justice!” he cried in fierce mockery. “Does that look like it?”
The walls of the little shack gave back his loud voice with redoubled volume, and, in the silence that followed, his heart shrank suddenly. He picked up the book, turned it, and found that by chance the place had not been lost. Again his eye struck on the line: I will sing of loving kindness and justice …
And an odd thought came to Tom Keene that those words might have been brought twice to his attention with a purpose, that it was indeed well for him since the place had not been missed.
