Man From Mustang

by Brand, Max

  The big man sat at the table, his face shining with sweat, the fatness of the fountain pen looking actually slender in his bulky hand.

  “You can’t bleed me,” he gasped finally. “You can’t do anything with a forced confession. I can laugh at this tomorrow.”

  “You won’t be here to-morrow,” said Silver.

  “Murder?” said Wayland, steadily enough.

  “I don’t think so — unless you fail to write,” said Silver. “To kill you wouldn’t be murder, Wayland. But if you write the stuff out, I’m simply going to take you downtown and see you catch the freight that’s pulling out of the station in about forty minutes. You’ll catch that train, and Soggy will catch it with you. When the confession is found in here and you’re found gone, I think it may do something, Wayland. But because I know you’d rather die than tell the truth and lose all your loot at the same time, I’m going to give you another sort of a chance with that. I’m going to let you open that safe and take what’s in it along with you.”

  “To become a fugitive of justice, eh?” said Wayland, narrowing his eyes.

  “You’ve been that before, or my eye can’t read straight,” said Silver. “Start writing!”

  One desperate glance Wayland flung around the room. Then he compressed his lips and began to write. The room fell utterly silent, so silent that the scratching of the pen seemed to be growing louder and louder, and Silver became aware of the ticking of the big clock that stood on the mantelpiece above the chimney place.

  He was aware of something else, too, after a time, and that was the approach of footfalls up the stairs. Big Wayland stopped writing, and his face lighted.

  “If it’s one of your guests,” said Silver, turning the key in the door, “tell him that you’re busy. That you’ll be right down. Understand?”

  Wayland nodded. But a fugitive hope was glimmering in his eyes all the time.

  Presently a hand beat on the door firmly.

  “Hello?” called Wayland, looking straight into the muzzle of Silver’s gun.

  “Hello, Wayland. This is Bert Philips. Wondered what was keeping you.”

  “Coming down in a minute,” said Wayland. But there was a shaking huskiness in his voice that made Philips exclaim:

  “Wayland! I want to see you, man!”

  He rattled the knob of the door. He had found enough in the absence of his host, he had heard enough in the voice of that host, to alarm him. There was no doubt about it. Wayland would have to admit him; at least, see him face to face.

  “You’ve been upset,” whispered Silver to Wayland. “Tell him that. Go unlock the door and face him — but if you let him come into the room, I start shooting, and I shoot at you. You hear?”

  Wayland rolled despairing eyes. Then he nodded, went to the door and turned the key. The door came instantly open, as though Philips were pushing against it. But Wayland held it by the knob, and the sheriff was saying:

  “I’m worried about you, man. And you look green-gray. You’re sweating. What the devil’s the matter? May I come in?”

  “I’ve been upset a little, is all. A little sick,” muttered Wayland. “You go back and keep the boys entertained. I’ll be down in a little while. Don’t worry, I’m all right. Just keep the boys entertained for a bit, will you?”

  “Well,” said Philips uneasily, “well, I’ll do that. But I’m worried about you. Sure that nothing’s wrong?”

  “No,” said Wayland. “I’m all right!”

  What torment it must have been for him to speak those words!

  But they were spoken, the door closed against Philips, and the lock softly turned back.

  Tottering in his step, his head hanging, Wayland went back to the table. Suddenly he said:

  “Silver, I’ll make you rich! I’ll pay you —”

  “Listen,” said Silver sternly. “If you had ten millions in gold and you could give it to me with a wave of the hand, I’d still laugh at you!”

  For one moment Wayland stared at that grim face. Then he resumed his writing.

  As he finished it, Silver, looking over his shoulder, read the document, and knew as the signature went down that the thing was perfect. If anything could save Holman, this was it — if only Wayland could be removed, so that it would look as though conscience had forced a confession from him before he fled with a part of his loot.

  He pushed the paper onto the center of the table, favored Silver with a scowl of the blackest hate, and then hurried to the safe. The combination wheel spun back and forth for an instant under his fat fingers. The heavy door opened with a faint puffing sound, and there was Wayland on his knees, at work.

  He knew where every item of the highest value was to be found. Perhaps, crook that he was, he had the cream of his wealth collected there against just such an emergency as this. At any rate, in five minutes he was on his feet again, with his pockets stuffed. Silver, stepping to the side of Soggy, with a touch of the knife had made the thug free, merely whispering:

  “Soggy, you’re going to climb on board the same train with him. You know where the pies are. Maybe you’ll be able to help yourself to some of ‘em.”

  Soggy rolled up his face with a frightful grin distorting it, and a flare of the big, apish nostrils. Suddenly Silver knew that he could trust the man to work honestly with him during the rest of that adventure.

  And he was right. He had no fear of the gun that he entrusted to Soggy. It was simply another proof that Wayland would not be able to get away. His figure was definitely settled.

  They passed out along the balcony. Soggy went to the ground first. Wayland then with stifled grunts of effort followed, to slide down the pillar at the end of the porch, while Silver hung by his hands from the edge of the balcony above and then dropped lightly to the ground. That was how the trio reassembled, and started across the grounds. The thinnest sort of a whistle summoned Parade out of the trees to the side of his master, and now Silver walked behind the pair, occasionally spurring big Wayland forward with a word.

  No one noticed the leading citizen of Tuckaway as he strode down alleys and across the little town toward the railroad station, or as he went under the guidance of Silver a little distance down the tracks to a point where a rising grade made it certain that the next freight could be boarded.

  It was not until the train came groaning and thundering near, however, that Wayland realized a new feature of danger in his plight.

  “You’ve given Soggy a gun!” he exclaimed. “It’s the same as murder for me to get on board the train with him. He’ll bump me off as sure as daylight! He’s bound to!”

  “I’ve got a spare gun for you, too,” said Silver. “You can have it as soon as the headlight of the engine goes by.”

  “Hold on!” yelled Soggy. “Don’t I get any edge on that big thug after I’ve — ”

  But the approaching thunder of the train drowned his voice. The headlight of the engine went by, printed the swinging shadows of the leaves of the bushes on the faces of the three men.

  It was now that Silver put a Colt into the hand of Wayland.

  “Now hop that train!” he shouted. “Because if you’re still here after it goes by, you shoot it out with me!”

  Then, kneeling at a gap in the brush, Silver, with poised gun, watched Wayland rush for the train. He saw Soggy leap like a monkey and catch with hands and feet. He saw big Wayland catch one of the iron ladders with almost equal agility. And then the train swayed on and passed out of view around the next turn, gathering speed all the while.

  It was already shooting along with a speed which would break the neck of any man who tried to leap from it. And many and many a mile would be between Wayland and the town of Tuckaway before he could start the return journey. Day would have come again, and the news of his disappearance and of his confession, before he could get back. And with the news, there would be a run on the bank unless the directors of it closed the doors.

  All the consequences were obscured before the eyes of Silver,
except he knew that he had kept himself from shooting a rascal who needed killing — and that he had assured the safe return of David Holman to the ranks of the law-abiding citizens.

  Chapter 24

  He had assured the return of Holman — if only he could bring help to his friends in the mountains before the cruel wits of Nellihan and Lorens had located the wounded man and his companions.

  Silver drove Parade like a golden streak straight back for the house of Wayland. He checked the stallion in front of the porch. Inside the house, he could hear a heavy battering at a door. Were they at last sufficiently alarmed to beat down the door?

  He rapped on the front door, in his turn. The Chinaman opened it before him, and then winced back at the sight of the tall body and the white rags it was dressed in.

  “Is the sheriff here?” asked Silver. “Then go tell him that Jim Silver is down here waiting to see him.”

  The Chinaman fled up the stairs, his hands outstretched to help him, like wings, his head jerking over a shoulder, now and then, to cast furtive glances back at the big man who waited in the hall.

  Upstairs, the battering paused for an instant, and Silver heard the voice of one of the deputies exclaim: “Mr. Wayland, if you don’t open the door, we’ll take it for granted that something has happened to you, and we’re going to break it down!”

  The voice of the Chinaman broke in on this. There was a sudden exclamation from the sheriff, then the stamp of his running feet on the hall floor above.

  Silver sang out: “I’m down here, Philips, and I’m not fighting.”

  Yet the first thing that he saw come down the dimness of the stairs was the glimmer of a revolver, and then the dark outlines of Philips crouched behind the gun.

  Silver put his hands up, shoulder high. “I’m not fighting,” he said. “Tell me if you know that Wayland has run out of town with all the cash he could get together. And then come down here and pinch me, if you want to!”

  “Break down that door, Gene!” called the sheriff to one of the deputies.

  Then he came hurrying down and confronted Silver.

  “Silver,” he said, “keep those hands up till I’ve fanned you. You know you’re wanted for knowingly and willingly and witting — or whatever the legal phrases are — helping that rat of a Dave Holman to escape!”

  “Fan me, Bert,” said Silver. “There’s a gun under the pit of my left arm, and there’s a knife on my left hip. Take ‘em both!”

  The door went down with a crash while he was speaking. Philips took him into the dining room, where the Chinaman remained quaking in a corner.

  “It’s the queerest layout that I’ve ever seen,” declared Philips. “I’ve never known anything like it. I hope I never do know anything like it. Wayland has turned into a green-faced mystery. You say that he’s gone out of town and — ”

  There was a loud shouting from above, and then the thundering of heavy feet on the stairs. The first deputy, he of the fierce eyes, rushed into the room, with the signed confession of Wayland fluttering like a white flag in his hand.

  He slapped it onto the table in front of Philips and cried: “Bert we been ridin’ all this way for nothin’. The scalp of this here gent, this David Holman, it ain’t worth a damaged nickel — because the whole yarn about him robbing the bank was a lie. Here’s the truth!”

  The sheriff was not a slow-minded man, but when he had finished reading that paper for the third time, he said: “But what persuaded Wayland to confess? If he’s been this much of a skunk, why should he ever have confessed?”

  The deputy pointed at Silver.

  “Him!” he said. He must’ve done it!”

  “We want Wayland, not Holman,” said the sheriff. “Where did you say that Wayland is?”

  “On a freight train bound east. You can telegraph ahead, but I don’t think he’ll arrive at the first station,” said Silver.

  “Why not?” asked Philips.

  “Because he may have some trouble on the road,” answered Silver. “Philips, if you don’t want Holman, you don’t want me.”

  “I don’t want you,” agreed Philips. “I might have known that you’d prove the law wrong, again! Poor Holman! Something ought to be done to make up to him what he’s gone through!”

  Silver had lowered his hands, slowly, while Gene watched him with starved, bright eyes, as though he hated to see this quarry slip through his hands.

  “The great thing you can do,” said Silver, “is to see that the men of Kirby Crossing don’t mob Holman and the others during the night. Nellihan and Lorens are leading those men from Kirby, and you can bet your money that they’ll keep moving all night. Philips, will you get on your horse and make a drive toward Kendal Mountain, yonder? That’s where I left Holman and the other three — up on a shoulder.”

  “I know the place,” said the sheriff. “I’ll get there as fast as horseflesh is able to fetch me. I’ll be with you in two minutes, as soon as we can saddle up.”

  Silver stepped to the window, and sent a whistle cutting into the outer night.

  “I’m going on ahead,” he said. “Parade will take me there ahead of you. There’s enough moonlight for straight shooting, and I’m worried about what may be happening up there. So long! You know the place! Ride your horses to a finish!”

  Hoofbeats sounded softly on the lawn, and came to a sliding halt on the gravel of the path beside the house. The sheriff saw the sheen of the golden stallion in the lamplight. Then Silver was through the window and into the saddle. He was gone in a flash into the night.

  It was almost at that moment that on the shoulder of Kendal Mountain, Harry Bench laid his hand on his sleeping companion, Ned Kenyon. As Kenyon wakened, he heard Bench saying:

  “They’re coming, Ned! Get up and out of here, fast! They’re not fifty steps away. Listen!”

  Kenyon heard a soft crackling, as a twig snapped. He was up instantly, sweeping his blanket into a roll.

  He saw, then, that the girl had not slept. She sat passively beside Holman. He had thrown out his hand, during his sleep, and she held it in both of hers. One gesture from Bench told her of the danger. She sprang up. Holman wakened with a start. In a moment Bench and Kenyon were carrying their wounded companion on the litter away from the little clearing.

  The moon was less than half full, but it shed a light that seemed to be growing stronger and stronger, as though danger were brightening it. If those who hunted for them found the place where they had camped, might not they also be able to find the out trail they were following?

  Kenyon carried the head of the litter and led the way. They went down the first slope until it entered the head of a ravine that wound on through the foothills, growing deeper every moment.

  “This here — it’s a trap!” said Harry Bench. “Suppose that they come down on us here, they’ll just flood us away!”

  “If we kept up there on the divides,” said Kenyon, “they could see us miles away under this moon. We ain’t in this valley because we like it, but because there ain’t any better place for us to go!”

  That was the sheer truth. They went on silently and had put a good mile behind them when a gun spoke from the cliff at their right.

  No bullet came near them. Three times the rifle was fired in rapid succession, and looking up, their frightened eyes saw a horseman wheeling his mustang away from the edge of the cliff, and going out of sight at a dead gallop. His wild Indian yell came whooping dimly down to them.

  The men of Kirby Crossing had found them. They could guess that, and it would not be long before the flood of fighters came sweeping down into the ravine, as fast as horseflesh could carry them. They put down the litter and stared at one another.

  Holman said: “It’s all right, boys. You’ve done more than any other men in the world could have done. The luck’s against us, at last, and that’s all. I can take the medicine. Stand back and hoist your hands if they sight you. Or better still, try to climb out of the canyon and get away. They may rough you up
a little if they find you with me; but if you’re not in sight, they’ll be glad enough to get me, and they’re not likely to keep on hunting for you.”

  The girl said nothing. As usual, she merely looked at Harry Bench, for she was rarely able even to glance toward Ned Kenyon.

  It was Kenyon who made the answer to that last remark, however. He said: “Harry, we’re in the narrows of the canyon. One man oughta be able to hold back a crowd for quite a spell, here. And while he’s holding, the other man and Edith can fetch Holman along till you come to some cut-back at the side of the ravine — some place where you can hole up and hide.”

  He took out a silver dollar, new-minted, flashing in the moonlight, and laid it on the back of his thumb.

  “Call, Harry!” said he, and spun the coin high into the air.

  Harry Bench looked up at the rising of the coin with despairing eyes. It was life or death, he knew, that was being tossed for. The man who remained behind, as Kenyon had so calmly suggested, would check the flood for a time, but it was sure to beat him down and roll on, before any long time.

  “Tails!” called Bench.

  The coin spatted on the palm of Kenyon. Bench leaned forward to look at it, but instantly the long fingers of Kenyon furled over it.

  “It’s tails,” said Kenyon. “It’s tails, all right. You win, and I stay here.”

  “I won’t stand for it!” groaned Holman. “Go and save yourselves, both of you, and take Edith.”

  Confusion of mind and doubt bred something like anger in the voice of Harry Bench.

  “She won’t leave you, you blockhead!” exclaimed Bench. “There ain’t any other way about it than this. Heaven help Ned — but the luck was agin him. Edith, pick up the light end of the litter, there.”

  He himself picked up the head of the litter. But the girl had run to Kenyon.

  “Come on with us, Ned!” she said. “If anything happens to you, even if the rest of us lived, would our lives be anything but a curse and a darkness?”

  “I ain’t going to be killed,” said Kenyon. “I feel kind of calm, and lucky. Say ‘Good-by’ and go fast.”