by Max Brand
“It’s true,” Tom Keene decided. “If she grows up with the world knowing about the kind of a father that she has her life’ll be ruined.” And a wild thought was passing through his brain—he had taken one life from the world, the life of his own father. Suppose he should restore another in his place? “Carver,” he said, “you’ve been a lying, lazy hound to your wife and your kid.”
“I know. But I’ve never had a chance to go straight,” whined Carver. “I’ve never had a chance. I never could get far enough ahead. But now I could stay straight, partner. I swear I could if …”
“Don’t swear,” Tom said savagely. “You ain’t fit to swear and be believed. But what I’m going to do … Look here, Carver. If you was to go back on what I’m going to make you promise, I’d come and cut your throat.”
“Go on,” Carver sobbed, still looking over his shoulder toward the point from which the baying of the hounds could be heard.
“If I get you out of this, you’ll stay by your home. You’ll do your best to take care of your wife. You’ll give your girl a good education, eh?”
“I …”
“Don’t swear, I say. I guess you’ll do it. If you don’t, I figure I’ll come back and finish you up, Carver. But now tell me this. How close have they been to you? Could they see you clear?”
“Not nearer than to make out the color of my horse.”
“Never seen your face even through a glass … never had a chance to size you up?”
“I wore a mask all through. How could they see?”
“They could see that you didn’t have a beard, that’s what I’m asking for. But if they ain’t been close enough for that … I’ll try.” He leaped into the saddle on the roan as he spoke. “Remember,” he called, “I’ll be watching what you do, Carver, even if I have to watch you out of a grave!”
And, so saying, he sent the blue roan across the hollow at full speed. He dipped out of view around the corner of the nearest hill, and John Carver busied himself with cutting away his coat and bandaging his wound to stop the flow as well as he could. He was not half finished when a pack of hounds darted over the crest of the hill behind him and shot straight down to the point where he was seated at his work. Short and heavy of leg, with long and sweeping ears, a gait steady and clumsy, a half dozen of the dogs appeared—true bloodhounds.
And terror stopped the hands of the robber. “But it’s the scent of the horse that they’ve got,” he told himself. “They ain’t going to bother none with me.”
Sure enough, they swerved to the left and dipped into the hollow while a rout of a full score of riders came in hot pursuit. The leader shouted directions. Two thirds of the men went on with the hounds. The others swirled around John Carver.
His story was simple. He, John Carver, had been walking across the hills when he heard the distant baying of hounds, and, almost at once, he had seen the rider of the blue roan, a big, black-bearded man, come over the crest of the hill, looking behind him and spurring his horse on in all the fashion of a hunted man. This, in conjunction with what he had heard of the robbery of the Mayville bank on the preceding day, had convinced him that it might be the famous White Mask himself. Therefore, he had run across the field and drawn his revolver, but the rider refused to halt in answer to his command and, instead, had gone for his gun. He, John Carver, managed to fire twice, but both shots unluckily went wide, while the robber, firing only once, had struck him to the ground, and now he lay there, fainting, a martyr to the law. The stains on him, and the hounds sweeping away at full cry on another trail—these were sufficient items to convince even the stern-faced, stiff-whiskered sheriff in charge.
“Get back on the trail,” he commanded, “and start riding. You, partner … what’s your name?”
“John Carver.”
“You’ll sure be remembered when we run the hound down. You’ll come in for your share of the reward. It ain’t every man that has the nerve to run out single-handed and try shots with the White Mask.”
“Thanks,” John Carver said humbly.
“Pete,” ordered the sheriff, “and Bob, give Carver a hand. One of you stay with him, and one of you start on and get help out here for him … a buckboard or something to take him in. Carver, you sure you ain’t bad hurt?”
“I’ll live through it, right enough,” said John Carver. His upper lip writhed back from his teeth. “Only got one request to make, Sheriff.”
“You got a right to talk, Carver. What is it?”
“When you get within gunshot of the hound, don’t show him no mercy. Shoot to kill, boys.”
The sheriff waved his hand. “You leave that to me, son. We’re either going to get him this trick or else salt him away with lead. Come on!”
They stormed away down the trail with a shout, and Carver, watching them go, noted that every man was mounted on a horse far fresher than the blue roan. He gave a great sigh of relief to think that he no longer sat in that saddle. As for the big man of the black beard—it mattered not what were the causes that had made him shift places.
The world is plumb full of nuts, anyway, John Carver thought to himself, and dismissed Keene from his thoughts.
Chapter Sixteen
His two guardians had submitted surlily enough to the order of the sheriff, and still, as they debated which should ride into Porterville or to the nearest house for help, their eyes turned after the noise of the departing bloodhounds. Yonder was excitement greater by far than the excitement of any fox hunt or boar chase. Yonder, also, was exceedingly great profit. Yet they were too manly to whine audibly at the disappointment. They came quickly to agreement as to which was to ride in. One departed. He had hardly dropped out of sight across the hilltop when another horseman came in view, riding up at a brisk canter and coming almost from the direction in which the hounds had disappeared.
It was Jerry Swain Jr.
“What’s happened? How do they lie now?” cried the man from the posse eagerly. “Did you get a look at ’em?”
“At what?” asked Jerry.
“At the posse … and the White Mask …”
“What d’you mean?”
“If you don’t want to foller ’em, stay here with this gent that got plugged for trying to stop the White Mask. You stay here with him … that’s easy enough. I’ll light out after the rest of the boys.”
“Sure,” Jerry said. “Go on if you like. I know Carver. Hello! Sorry this happened. Are you badly hurt?”
“Nothing fatal about it,” John Carver answered. “Sort of cracked, but not plumb smashed.”
The man of the posse waited to hear no more, but, secure in the belief that the newcomer was an honest man, he whirled his horse and darted away after the dying noise of the hounds. Jerry Swain was instantly on the ground and helping to arrange the bandage. The thanks of Carver were profuse, and the groans and the curses that he showered on the head of the White Mask were equally thick.
“What sort of a looking man is he?” asked Jerry. “Did you get close enough to see that? Or was he wearing his mask?”
“Not when I seen him,” Carver said. “Big fellow, Swain. He must weigh close to two hundred, and he looks strong as an ox. Sort of man you’ll expect anything from.”
Jerry Swain, remembering that encounter in the dusk and the crushing arms of the preacher, blinked.
“And he’s got a big black beard,” Carver said. “Matter of fact, it’ll be hard for him to get away the next time, now that his face has been seen this once.”
“It will, right enough,” said Jerry. In his heart he marveled a little at the villainy of Carver in so calmly shifting all the blame and furnishing this exact description of his rescuer. Yet, when he examined his own conscience, he was sneakingly aware that he would have been apt to do exactly what the elder man was doing.
“Here,” he said kindly, “I’ll brush some of the dirt off of th
is coat.” He started to drag it from under Carver, but the latter deftly put his heel on it and then—but merely as though bracing himself—dropped his usable hand on the revolver that had fallen to the ground near him.
“Never mind,” he said cheerfully enough. “Let it rest where it is.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Jerry. “Got something in it you don’t want people to see?” He was favored with a glance of murderous intentness after this speech.
“Nothing worth seeing,” Carver said. “But I can manage to take care of my own clothes yet a while. What d’you think could be in it?”
It was a delight to Jerry, this interview. He felt the cruel pleasure of the fisherman playing with the fish and knowing that in a little while he will be able to land it, no matter how the fish may battle in the meantime.
“Well,” he said, “I had an idea there might even be something quite useful in that coat.”
Carver started. “Useful to who?” he asked sharply.
“To anybody.”
The color of the robber changed. “Swain,” he said huskily, “what are you driving at?”
“Money,” Jerry said suddenly.
The hand of the other clenched suddenly around the butt of the revolver on which he had dropped it. Yet he was not quite sure, and he managed a caricature of a laugh. “Sure,” he said, “we all could use money. But me … I’m a poor man, Swain. You ought to know that about as well as anybody. Ain’t your father got one of the mortgages that are killing me?”
“You’ve got so little money of your own, as a matter of fact,” said Jerry, “that you might even think, now and then, of stepping out and getting a little piece of money that belongs to somebody else, eh, Carver?”
Carver turned livid and jerked the gun into his lap. “Now talk out and talk quick,” he said. “What are you driving at?”
Jerry Swain Jr. gave back, pale and trembling himself, but finding his actual fear not altogether unpleasant. He felt himself to be utterly safe, after all. “No use picking up your gun, Carver,” he said. “The other man will be back with a wagon. And then …”
“Talk out!” gasped Carver. “You talk about me … money …”
“Carver,” Jerry Swain said, “you’re the White Mask.” He smiled pleasantly as he saw the blow go home and the face of the robber wrinkle. “Though how one like you,” Jerry went on smoothly, “can be the father of a sweet little girl like your Mary, I’m hanged if I see. But she’s what father would call a sport … she’s jumped outside of your class. As a matter of fact, I suppose I have to turn you over to the sheriff, eh?”
“You do?” Carver said, grinding his teeth. “When you turn me over, they’ll be a pile of dead men turning over in their graves. You rat.” He exposed the gun and trained it directly at Jerry.
“Are you crazy?” cried the latter worthy, pale in good earnest. “Don’t you know that they’d find my body and … and …”
“Why not be hanged for killing you, too, so long as I have to swing, anyway?” Carver snarled. “I’ll teach you to stand up and pity Mary Carver for her father!”
“Carver,” gasped out Jerry Swain, “you’re talking too quickly. You don’t wait for me to finish. I mean you no harm, if you play the game with me.”
Normal color slowly began to return to the face of John Carver. “What game?” he asked sullenly.
“I saw everything from the hill yonder. I saw Tom Keene shoot you, Carver. And then … heaven knows why, but I think the fellow’s a little wrong in the head … he jumped onto your horse and rode off and pulled the hounds after him … and saved your skin.” He smiled in triumph as he thrust the details into Carver’s attention again.
“If you were to tell it,” Carver breathed, “nobody would believe you.”
“Bah!” Jerry sneered. “Everything is against you. You’re exactly the sort of man to be suspected, Carver. You’re poor. You’re in debt. You have a wife and a child dependent upon you. And if I was willing to go into court against you, don’t you suppose that they’d believe me well enough to at least search your coat pockets and find handfuls of money there?”
John Carver was speechless. All that he dreaded had been revealed. The perspiration rolled down his face and dripped off his chin, and yet the day was not overly hot. “What d’you want, Swain?” he managed to gasp out at length.
“Every cent you have!” exclaimed Jerry.
“What?”
“Isn’t your life worth that to you?”
Carver hesitated a fraction of a second. But he had seen enough to convince him that Swain was a coward. Ordinarily he would not even have attempted to argue.
“Look here,” he said. “Talk a little sense. D’you suppose I risked my neck for this to give it to you? Man, you make me laugh. You’ve got something on me, and I’ve got to buy you off. That’s easy. I’m agreeable. But give you all of it? I’d sooner give you a couple of chunks of lead in the head, son, and then take my chances on buying myself off with them that are coming over the hill.”
“You can’t bluff,” Jerry said, but in spite of his smile he was worried.
“Can’t I?” cried the robber, thrusting out his jaw. “I’ll tell you this, beauty, too. I’m sort of tired of living, anyway. What’s a year or two more to live, one way or another? Listen. There’s the rattle of the buckboard coming. Swain, talk out sharp. If you want to come to any sort of terms with me, shout out right now. Otherwise, I’ll let my gun talk.” He changed his voice to a growl, “What d’you want? How much d’you have to have?”
And in spite of himself, though he knew he could just as well have doubled or trebled the sum, the figure that had been forming in his brain and haunting him in his dreams burst from his lips.
“Five hundred dollars, Carver. I’ve got to have five hundred dollars!” He gritted his teeth and added hastily, “I mean a thousand, Carver, I …”
“I know what you mean,” Carver said with a sneer. “You need five hundred, but you’d like to have as much as you can get. Well, Swain, I’ll give you five hundred. And it sure is easy money for you, that never risked a fingertip to get it. But here you are.”
He counted it out of a jumbled mass that he restored to his pocket again, and Jerry Swain watched him with feverish eyes. But, after all, he knew where that money was, and if the fear of being exposed had made the robber pay once, it would make him pay again. In reality, the money he had stolen could be regarded as a sum simply held in trust for Jerry Swain. And a warm feeling of security ran through Jerry. For the first time in his life the grim shadow of financial difficulties promised to be lifted from his path.
Chapter Seventeen
The hounds were speeding far away on the trail of Tom Keene, and the big man felt the blue roan weaken beneath him. The weight of Carver had been wearing out the horse, and now the more ponderous burden of Tom crushed his heart from him. He began to falter at the first long upgrade, and Tom knew that he had not much farther to go. Looking back, he could see his pursuers streaming over a hilltop, only two ranges back.
From the crest where he was at that moment posted, he could survey the possibilities fairly accurately. Turning to the right, he would be entering the ups and downs of mountain work, and the laboring ribs of his horse convinced him that another mile of such running would break him down to a walk. Ahead and below him, a small stream was shooting down a steep channel that no horse in the world could ford.
Striking the level below, the little river disappeared in a long strip of marsh land of no great width. At the far end of the marsh, it formed again and ran on more slowly, bridged where it gathered into a stream. In that direction, then, he should turn his rapidly flagging horse. But, if he did that, he would be cutting across the direction by which the posse approached him, and he would lose vital ground. Indeed, long before he could gain the bridge, he and his faltering blue roan would be within range o
f the expert riflemen of the pursuit. To avoid that, he must give up the hope of gaining the bridge.
There remained another alternative, a third and last one. If he plunged straight down the slope toward the marsh as fast as his horse could carry him, he would be able to go at a rapid clip, and then, having ridden the roan as far as possible into the morass, he could go on, swimming or running, until he reached the firm ground on the farther side.
There would be this advantage. The hounds would drive straight down the slope, and most likely the posse would rush on in similar manner. In the marsh they would become hopelessly confused. They could not well hope to overtake him, even if they started on foot.
In the meantime, once on the far side of the marsh, he could gain the little farm beyond and, without staying to saddle, fling a bridle over the head of one of the horses in the corral and shoot away toward freedom again.
There were two dangers in this scheme. One was that the farmer might have his courage and his rifle handy and take a shot at the horse thief. The other danger was that part of the posse, the moment they saw the direction of his flight, might not go for the swamp but ride directly for the bridge at the extreme end of the marsh. In that case, they could probably cut around the marsh and reach the farm in time to head him off. In any event, it was a desperate chance, but it seemed the only one worth taking. Otherwise, he was done for.
He shot the roan down the slope at a swift gallop, swung out of the saddle when he saw that the beast would be bogged at once if he were ridden into the water-soaked ground, and then ran on into the marsh. There was water up to his knees almost at once, and then he struck thick mud, which held him back with a grip almost as tenacious as glue. A moment later he was in a tangle of fallen, rotting trees and shrubs. The bark on which he rested his hands came out in molding sections beneath his touch. His feet, which he based on the logs, slipped in the slime, and again and again he was precipitated up to his neck in water. And once the slimy surface closed above his head. So, struggling on in mud, water, and through a hundred obstructions, he pressed to the center of the marsh and there found a small open stretch of water.
