by Max Brand
“Orchard has started a run,” the rumor ran through the room, and the little crowd began to grow.
As he played, wholly intent on the work before him, he heard someone say: “Who’d he get?”
“Bud Castor. Nice for Bud, eh?”
“But who’ll take care of Bud’s family? Sam Jordan?”
“Bah! Sam Jordan wouldn’t take care of a dog.”
“They’ll take up a collection, maybe.”
“They’s been too many collections at this here rodeo, I say, for one.”
“And you’re right, too.”
Again the odd won, and Jim, raking in his money, prepared to switch his bets. His momentary withdrawal was taken advantage of by a squat-built, powerful fellow who touched his arm.
“How are you, Jim?”
“Hello, Harry. What you want?”
“How’d you know I was busted?”
“Are you flat, Harry?”
“I’ll tell a man.”
“What’ll fix you up?”
“Sure hate to touch you, Jim, but if you can let a hundred go for a couple of days …?”
“Sure.”
His hand was on his wallet when he remembered—remembered about Sue Hampton, his grudge against the world, and that debt that he felt society owed him.
He hesitated. “Haven’t you got a cent, Harry?”
“Not a red, partner.”
Orchard set his jaw in the face of the ingratiating grin. From a corner of his eye he had noted the passing of a wink and a wise smile between a couple of bystanders. There followed a sudden scuffle, without warning, without words. At the end of it, Harry, with one arm crooked into the small of his back, had been jammed into the bar in a position of absolute helplessness, and the deft hands of Jim Orchard went swiftly through the pockets of his victim. Presently he found what he wanted. He drew forth the chamois bag, shook it, and a little shower of gold pieces fell to the floor.
He released Harry with a jerk that sent him spinning across the floor.
“A cold hundred if you got a cent,” he declared. “Is that what you call flat broke? You skunk!”
The crowd split away and drew back, like a wave receding from two high rocks. There was a very good possibility of gun play, and no one wanted to be within the direct course of the bullets. It required a very steady nerve to face Jim Orchard, but Harry Jarvis was by no means a coward. He was half turned away from Jim, with his face fully toward him, and the hidden arm was crooked and tensed, with the hand near the holster of his gun. The weight of a hair might turn the balance and substitute bullets for words. Jim Orchard was talking softly and coldly.
“You come to me like a drowned rat,” he said, “and you beg for a hundred. Where’s the hundred I gave you six months ago? There was another hundred before that, and a fifty and a couple of twenties still further back. You’ve used me like a sponge and squeezed me dry. And there’s a lot of the rest of you that’ve done the same thing. Where’s the gent in this room that’s ever heard of me begging or borrowing a cent from anybody? Let him step out and say his little piece. But the next four-flushing hound dog that tries a bluff with me like Harry’s is going to get paid in lead on the spot. Gents, I’m tired … I’m considerable tired of the way things have been going. There’s going to be a change. I’m here to announce it.”
Then he deliberately turned his back on Harry Jarvis and stepped to the bar. Harry Jarvis, great though the temptation of that turned back was, knew perfectly well by the sternness of the faces around him that his gun would be better off in its leather than exposed to the air. Jarvis turned and disappeared through the door.
“Well, Jim,” said the bartender, “there’s a hundred saved.”
“There’s more than a hundred spent,” answered Jim gloomily. “He’s busted up my run.”
For the gamester’s superstition had a hold on Jim Orchard. Nothing could have persuaded him to tempt fortune again on that day, once his happy streak of winning had been interrupted from the outside. He counted his winnings as he left the gaming hall. He was some $550 ahead, as the result of the few moments he had spent in the place. At least it was a comfortable beginning toward the goal that had been set for him by Susan Hampton. When he reached the dust of the street, he had so far relaxed his grim humor that he was humming softly to himself. The result of his contentment was that he nearly ran over a barefooted urchin who was scuffing his way moodily through the dust.
“Hey!” yelled the youngster, “whatcha doing?” He changed to a surly grin. “Hello, Jim.”
“Hello,” said Jim Orchard. “You’re Bud Castor’s boy, I figure.”
“Sure.”
“What’s the news? What’s the doctor say?”
“He says Pa won’t never be able to ride ag’in.”
Fate made the fingers of Jim Orchard at that moment close over the money that he had just won at the gaming hall. Before the impulse left him he had counted out $550 into the hand of the youngster.
“You take that to your mother, you hear? Tell her to put it away for the rainy day. Or maybe she can use it to help get Bud fixed up.”
“Gee,” exclaimed the boy, “I … I’d about die for you, Jim Orchard!”
“Hmm,” mused the spendthrift. “Now, you cotton on to this … if you ever tell your ma or your pa where you got the money, I’ll come and skin you alive. Don’t forget.”
He accompanied this warning with a scowl so terrible that the child changed color. Jim Orchard left him agape and went on down the street, smiling faintly. When he reached the hotel, his smile went out suddenly.
“Good glory,” said Jim, “I’ve done it again.” But he instantly consoled himself in his usual manner. “What else was there for me to do? Bud needs it more than I do, I guess.”
III
He was beginning to feel a certain leaden helplessness, as men will when they think that destiny is against them. He had had half of the $5,000 in his pocket, but now he was back to the $2,000 again. He went with a heavy step into the bar of the hotel and leaned against the wall. Here the heroes of that day’s events at the rodeo were holding forth on their luck. With immense grins and crimson blushes they accepted the congratulations of the less daring or the less lucky. He was picked out by one or two and invited to drink, but he shook his head. The invitations were not pressed home, for Jim Orchard was obviously in one of his moods. At such times those who knew him best avoided him the most.
Only the hotel proprietor ventured to pause for an exchange of words. “How’s things?”
“Rotten. I’d staked every cent I have on Jerico, and now he’s out of the running for the race tomorrow.”
“How come?”
“Ain’t Bud Castor all mashed up? Who’ll ride Jerico?”
“That’s right. I forgot. Maybe you’d try a fling at him, Jim?”
“I’m not that tired of living, partner.”
“Then there’s no hope unless Garry Munn takes on the job.”
Jim Orchard pricked his ears. “Yep, there’s Garry. Handy on a horse, too.”
“Not the man you are in the saddle,” said the flattering host.
“I’m past my day,” said Jim Orchard. “I’ve seen the time … but let that go. By the way, where’s Garry?”
“Gone up to his room.”
“I want to see him,” replied Jim.
Having learned the room number, he straightway climbed the stairs.
What were the emotions that made it so necessary to see Garry Munn, he did not know until he had entered the room and shaken hands with the man. Then he understood. A strong premonition told him that this was the man who would eventually marry Susan Hampton. Here, again, there was a feeling of fate. Indeed, Garry Munn had so often secured the things he wished that it was hard to imagine him failing with the woman he wanted to make his wife. He was a fin
e, handsome fellow with a clear-blue eye and decidedly blond hair—the Scandinavian type. He was as tall as Jim Orchard, and far more heavily set. Altogether he was a fine physical specimen, and his brain did not lag behind his body. He had been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, and it was well known that he had improved his opportunities from the first. The ranch, which his father left him as a prosperous property, had been flourishing ever since, as Munn bought adjacent land. He was well on his way, indeed, to becoming a true cattle king. No wonder that Jim Orchard had to swallow a lump of envy that rose in his throat as he looked at his companion.
“I hear you been tearing things up at the rodeo,” he began, “and walking off with the prizes, Garry.”
“Because you weren’t around to give me a run for my money,” answered the diplomatic Garry. “How’s things, Jim? How’s mining coming on?”
“Rotten.”
For all of his diplomacy, Garry could not keep a little twinkle of gratification out of his eye, and Jim felt an overwhelming desire to drive his bony fist into the smirk on the other’s lips. He wanted trouble, and only his promise to Sue Hampton kept him from plunging into a fight on the spur of the moment.
“Mining’s always a hard gamble,” went on Garry.
“But the luck still stays good with you, Garry?”
“Tolerable.”
“Sue has been telling me a lot about you.”
“Oh.” The diplomatic Garry became instantly wary.
“You been seeing a good deal of her lately, I guess?”
“Sure,” said Garry Munn. “I tried to keep her company while you were out of town. No harm done, I guess?”
“Sure not. Mighty thoughtful of you, Garry.”
Down in his heart he had always felt that Garry was a good deal of a clever sneak, and now he gave his voice a proper edge of irony. Yet the younger man was continually surprising him by unexpected bursts of frankness. One of these bursts came now.
“You see, Jim,” he declared, “I always aim to let Sue know that, while I ain’t running any competition with you, I’d rather be second best with her than first with any other girl around these parts.”
“That’s kind of consoling for Sue, I figure.”
“Oh, she don’t take me no ways serious. I’m just a sort of handy man for her. I take her around to the parties when you ain’t here to do it. She treats me like an old shoe. Nothing showy, but sort of comfortable to have around.” He chuckled at his statement of the case.
“Sort of queer,” murmured Jim Orchard. “Here you are with mostly everything that I lack and still I got something, it appears, that you want for yourself.”
“You don’t mean that serious, Jim?”
“Mean what?”
“You don’t think I’m trying to cut in between you and Sue Hampton?”
“Garry, all I think would near fill a book.”
It was plain that Garry Munn did not desire trouble. He even cast one of those wandering glances around the room that proclaim the man who knows he is cornered. Then he looked steadily at his guest.
“Let’s hear a couple of chapters.”
“You been running a pretty good man-sized bluff, Garry. You been playing rough and ready all your life. Underneath I figure you for a fox.”
“Kind of looks as though you’re aiming at trouble, Jim.”
“Take it any way you want.”
Garry shrugged his shoulders. He saw the twin devils gleaming in the eyes of Orchard and knew what they meant. He had seen Orchard at work in more than one brawl, and the memories were not pleasant.
“You can’t insult me, Jim.”
“Seems that way,” returned Jim Orchard. “Somehow, I never had a hunch that you was as low as this, Garry.”
“What have I got to gain by fighting you up here? You’re a shifter, a wastrel … pretty close to a tramp. Why should I risk myself in a mix-up with you? Where’s the audience?”
“I’ll try you in a crowd, Garry.”
The other became deadly serious. “Don’t do it, Jim. Between you and me, I know you’re a bad man in a fight. So am I. But in private I’m going to dodge trouble. If you cut loose in public, I’ll fight back, and it’ll be the hottest fight of your life.”
“I think it would be,” admitted Jim with candid interest, as he ran his glance over the powerful body of the other.
“Now that we’ve got down to facts,” ran on Munn, “I don’t mind saying that I’m out for you, Orchard. I’m out to get Sue Hampton, and I’m going to get her. In the first place she’s waited long enough for you. In the second place there never was a time when you been worthy of looking twice at her.”
“You get more and more interesting,” said Orchard, smiling. He appeared to grow cooler as the other increased in heat. “But you never took no notice of Sue until I began to call on her.”
“A good reason, Orchard. We started out with an even break. We both had ranches, and about the same layout of stock, and things like that. I made up my mind I was going to beat you out … and I did it. Who started by lending you money? I did. Who kept on lending? I did. And who finally bought the whole shebang? I did. I got your ranch, I got your cows, I got your horses. I put you right off the cow map.”
“And you decided to keep right on?” queried Jim Orchard pleasantly.
“Why not? I started you downhill and I’m going to keep you going. And the job ain’t complete if I don’t get your girl away from you. I’m going to get her. You can lay to that.”
Orchard’s face flushed crimson, as his hand instinctively reached out. Then he remembered his promise. With difficulty he controlled himself and moved toward the door. There he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
“It does me a pile of good to have the mask off your good-looking face, Garry. I’ve had one look at the skunk you are inside and I won’t forget.”
“Fair means or foul,” Garry replied calmly, settling back into his chair. “I was always out for your scalp, Orchard, and now I’m sure I’m going to get it.”
There was a tensing of the gaunt figure at the door, and for a moment Garry thought he had gone too far. But instead of making the fatal move toward his gun, Jim Orchard allowed his long face to wrinkle into a smile. He swept his hat in mock politeness toward the floor and then disappeared with his usual slow, stalking walk.
IV
Among the unnamed good things which Sue Hampton had done in her life, a prevented homicide was now to be numbered, and Jim Orchard was well aware of it as he closed the door and went down the groaning stairs. His muscles were still hard set, and he was struggling to keep himself in hand. When he reached the veranda, he stopped to breathe deeply, waiting for the red mist to clear away. But in spite of the passing of moments, the tips of the fingers of his right hand still itched for the feel of the handle of his revolver.
Into his mind cut the sharp, small voice of Sam Jordan. He turned and saw the man coming with difficulty toward him. His legs trailed behind him or wobbled awkwardly to the sides, as he dragged himself on with the crutches. For many a month, now, every waking moment of Sam Jordan’s life had been a torture. His face was old and gray with pain, and his smile was a ghastly caricature. Yet he never complained; he never surrendered to whining.
He had been a sound and hale man when he attempted to ride Jerico. The former owner of that fierce mustang had a standing offer of the gift of the beast and $500 besides, to any man who could stay on his back for five minutes. Sam Jordan had made the attempt—and he stayed on for the prescribed length of time.
Sam’s riding of Jerico was something of which even strong men still talked with a shudder. For Jerico had been posed by his captor as an “outlaw” and had already gone to a finishing school of bucking. There have been fables of men who could ride anything “on four feet and with hair on its back,” but these are truly fables.
Jerico was a king among outlaws. He leaped like a bouncing spring, and with equal uncertainty of direction, and his endurance was a bottomless pit.
He was full of freaky humors, however. Sometimes he pitched like a fiend, while on other occasions he demonstrated for only a moment or so and waited for another day, when he was more in the humor of deviltry. With Sam Jordan he began mildly with straight bucking as he ran. Then he turned and came back fence rowing, and then, getting warmed to his work, he commenced to weave. And still Sam Jordan stayed to his work, until, at the end of the fourth minute, the great black stallion began to sunfish.
Of all forms of bucking this is the most dreaded, and Jerico “fished for the sun” almost literally. In other words, he leaped a prodigious height and then came down on stiffened forelegs. The result was a shock that stunned the brain and nearly wrenched the head from the shoulders of Sam Jordan.
With only one minute remaining for him to fulfill his contract, Jordan was doing well enough when Jerico began his master work. The third of these grim shocks sent the blood bursting from the nose and mouth of the unfortunate Jordan. But Jerico was only beginning. He added a consummate touch. Instead of landing on both stiff forelegs, he struck on only one. The result was a heavy impact, and then a swift lurch to one side—a snap-the-whip effect. With glazing eye and awful face Sam Jordan stayed in the saddle, rapidly being jarred into unconsciousness.
But the minute slipped past, and exactly at the end of the scheduled five minutes, Jerico reared and pitched back. His whole weight crushed upon the body of Sam Jordan and, when the latter was raised from the ground, he was an unspeakable wreck with hardly six inches of sound bone in either of his legs. He was now the proud possessor of the fiend who had wrecked his body and his life.
One might have expected Sam Jordan to spend the rest of his days tormenting the wild mustang. He did quite the reverse. He managed to secure an old Negro named Tom who was the first and only human being the stallion could endure around him, and he made Tom care for the mustang as if for a great race horse. Nothing was too good for Jerico, as far as the fortune of Sam Jordan extended.
