The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  “I don’t expect no bloomin’ tears;

  The only thing I ask

  Is something for a monument/

  In the way of a whisky flask.”

  The sound of the gallop died out before the saloon, the door opened, and Geraldine staggered into the room, carrying a small but apparently ponderous burden in his arms. He lifted it to the bar which creaked under the weight.

  “Step up and liquor!” cried Geraldine in a ringing voice. “I got the Ghost!”

  A growl answered him. It was a topic over which they were not prepared to laugh.

  “Get out and tell that to your hoss, son,” said one miner. “We got other things to think about than your damfoolery.”

  “Damfoolery?” echoed Geraldine. “Step up and look at the loot! Dust, boys, real dust!”

  He untied the mouth of a small buckskin bag and shoved it under the nose of the man who had spoken to him. The latter jumped back with a yell and regarded Geraldine with fascinated eyes.

  “By God, boys,” he said, “it is dust!”

  Geraldine fought off the crowd with both hands.

  “All mine!” he cried. “Mine, boys! You voted the loot to the man who caught the Ghost!”

  “And where’s the Ghost?” asked several men together.

  “Geraldine,” said Collins, pushing through the crowd, “if this is another joke we’ll hang you for it!”

  “It’s too heavy for a joke,” grinned Geraldine. “I’ll put the loot in your hands, Collins, and when I show you the Ghost I’ll ask for it again.”

  Collins caught his shoulder in a strong grasp.

  “Honest to God?” he asked. “Have you got him?”

  “I have,” said Geraldine, “and I’ll give him to you on one ground.”

  “Out with it,” said Collins.

  “Well,” said Geraldine, “when you see him you’ll recognize him. He’s been one of us!”

  “I knew it,” growled Collins; “some dirty dog that lived with us and knifed us in the back all the time.”

  “But, remember,” said Geraldine, “he never shot to kill, and that’s why you sha’n’t string him up. Is it a bargain?”

  “It’s a bargain,” said Collins, “we’ll turn him over to the sheriff. Are you with me, boys?”

  They yelled their agreement, and in thirty seconds every man who had a horse was galloping after Collins and Geraldine. At the shrub beside the wall of the valley Geraldine drew rein, and they followed him in an awed and breathless body into the passage.

  “I went out scouting on my own hook,” explained Geraldine, as he went before them, “and I saw the Ghost ride down the cañon and disappear in here. I followed him.”

  “Followed up this passage all alone?” queried Collins.

  “I did,” said Geraldine.

  “And what did you do to him?”

  “You’ll see in a minute. There was only one shot fired, and it came from his gun.”

  They turned the sharp angle and entered the lighted end of the passage. In another moment they crowded into the cave and stood staring at the tightly bound figure of Silver Pete. His eyes burned furiously into the face of Geraldine. The men swarmed about his prostrate body.

  “Untie his feet, boys,” said Collins, “and we’ll take him back. Silver Pete, you can thank your lucky stars that Geraldine made us promise to turn you over to the law.”

  “How did you do it?” he continued, turning to Geraldine.

  “I’m not very handy with a gun,” said the Ghost, “so I tackled him with my fists. Look at that cut on his jaw. That’s where I hit him!”

  A little murmur of wonder passed around the group. One of them cut the rope which bound Pete’s ankles together, and two more dragged him to his feet.

  “Stand up like a man, Pete,” said Collins, “and thank Geraldine for not cutting out your rotten heart!”

  But Silver Pete, never moving his eyes from the face of the Ghost, broke into a long and full-throated laugh.

  “Watch him, boys!” called Collins sharply. “He’s going looney! Here, Jim, grab on that side and I’ll take him here. Now start down the tunnel.”

  Yet, as they went forward, the rumbling laugh of the gun-fighter broke out again and again.

  “I got to leave you here,” said the Ghost, when they came out from the mouth of the passage. “My way runs east, and I got a date at Tuxee for to-night. I’ll just trouble you for that there slicker with the dust in it, Collins.”

  Without a word the vigilance men unstrapped the heavy packet which he had tied behind his saddle. He fastened it behind Geraldine’s saddle and then caught him by the hand.

  “Geraldine,” he said, “you’re a queer cuss! We haven’t made you out yet, but we’re going to take a long look at you when you come back to Murrayville to-morrow.”

  “When I come back,” said Geraldine, “you can look at me as long as you wish.”

  His eyes changed, and he laid a hand on Collins’s shoulder.

  “Take it from me,” he said softly, “you’ve given me your word that the boys won’t do Pete dirt. Remember, he never plugged any of you. He’s got his hands tied now, Collins, and if any of the boys try fancy stunts with him—maybe I’ll be making a quick trip back from Tuxee. Savvy?”

  His eyes held Collins for the briefest moment, and then he swung into his saddle and rode east with the farewell yells of the posse ringing after him. By the time they were in their saddles Geraldine had topped a hill several hundred yards away and his figure was black against the moon. A wind from the east blew back his song to them faintly:

  “I don’t expect no bloomin’ tears;

  The only thing I ask

  Is something for a monument

  In the way of a whisky flask.”

  “Look at him, boys,” said Collins, turning in his saddle. “If it wasn’t for what’s happened to-night, I’d lay ten to one that that was the Ghost on the wing for his hiding-place!”

  HOLE-IN-THE-WALL BARRETT (1919)

  If this story were not fact, it would not be written. It is too incredible for fiction. The best proof of its reality is the very fact that it is incredible, but if further proof is wanted it may be obtained from the twelve good men and true who formed the jury at the trial of Harry McCurtney. If they will not do, certainly Judge Lorry is an unimpeachable witness.

  The story has to do with probably the oldest combination known to stories—a hero, a villain, and a beautiful woman. The hero was young, handsome, talented; the villain was middle-aged and rather stout, and smoked big black cigars; the beautiful woman was very beautiful.

  Whatever the reader may think, this is not a motion-picture scenario. However, it sounds so much like one that it might as well start in the movie way.

  The camera, therefore, opens on a close-up of the middle-aged villain. As the round spot of light widens, everyone can see that the man is a villain. The way he chews that long black cigar, for instance, emitting slow; luxurious puffs, is sufficient proof.

  No one but a villain really enjoys good tobacco; but to pile Pelion on Ossa, there are other proofs—lots of them. He has a square, bulging jaw, a straight-lipped, cruel mouth, a great hawk nose, and keen eyes buried under the overhanging shelter of shaggy brows. He is frowning in his villainous way and looking down.

  The spot of light widens still further and includes the beautiful woman. She is very, very beautiful; a black-haired type with questioning, dark eyes. She is dressed in black, too, filmy over the arms, so that the rose tint of flesh shines through. She reclines in an easy chair with her head pillowed gracefully and canted somewhat to one side, while she studies the villain and defies him.

  One notices her slender-fingered hand drooping from the arm of the chair, and compares it with the big fist of the villain, wondering how she can have the courage to defy him. She seems to know all about him. Well, she ought to. She is his wife.

  The camera now opens out to the full and one sees the room. It is very big. There is a soft
glimmer of diffused light, which is brightest on the corner of the grand piano and the slightly gray head of the villain. His big feet are planted in the thick texture of a rug. An arched doorway opens upon a vista of other rooms fully as sumptuous as this one. Proof positive that the man is a villain! He is too rich to be good.

  The woman is talking. She leans forward with a smile that would win the heart of an armored angel—one of Milton’s kind; but the man still frowns. It is easy to see that he is going to refuse her request—the beast! She concludes with a gesture of infinite grace, infinite appeal.

  This is what she said:

  “So you see, John, it was really a good act on the part of Harry to rid the world of that unspeakable uncle of his. Why, there isn’t a soul in the city with a single kind word for that old miser, William McCurtney! He never did a gentle act. He broke the heart of his wife and killed her. He has kept poor Harry in penury.”

  The villain removed the black cigar from his teeth with a singularly unattractive hand. It looked as if it had been used all his life for grabbing things—and then holding them. His eyes burrowed into the face of the beautiful woman as if it made not the slightest difference to him whether he was speaking to his wife or not.

  “This is the case,” he said. “Harry McCurtney killed his uncle, William McCurtney. He did it by putting poison in the Scotch whisky which old William was drinking to the health of his nephew. A maid saw Harry put something into his uncle’s glass. She afterward got hold of the vial of poison, out of which only a few drops had been poured. There was enough left to kill ten men. When old McCurtney died that night, the maid called in the police and had Harry arrested. She produced the vial of poison as evidence. The case was easily made out. A druggist has sworn that the poison was purchased from him by young Harry McCurtney. Tomorrow the jury is certain to bring a verdict of guilty against this man. That, in brief, is the case of the man you want me to defend.”

  “Your brevity,” said his wife, “has destroyed everything worthwhile in the case. You have left out the fact that William McCurtney was a heartless old ruffian—a miser, hated by everyone and hating everyone. You have left out the fact”—here her voice lowered and grew musically gentle as only the voice of a woman of culture can grow—“you have left out the fact, John, that Harry McCurtney is a rare soul, an artist, a man unequipped for battling with the world. With the fortune he inherits from his uncle he would lead a beautiful, an ideal existence. He would do good to the world. He is—he is—a chosen spirit, John!”

  “And he murdered his uncle,” said John Barrett, “while old William was drinking his nephew’s health and long life.”

  “That is an absurd and brutal way of stating it,” said Mrs. John Barrett. “You cannot reduce the troubles of a delicate and esthetic soul to such a bald statement of fact.”

  “I should have to be a poet to do him justice?”

  “You would.”

  “However it is a waste of time to attempt to defend this fellow. I’ve seen the evidence. He’ll hang!”

  His wife rose from her chair and stood facing him. All the color went from her face; she seemed to have been painted white with a single stroke of an invisible brush.

  “He must not hang! John, you can defend him. I’ve seen you win more impossible cases than this! I remember the Hanover trial. John Hanover was guilty. All the world knew it; but all the evidence of his guilt came from one witness. On the last day, before the case went to the jury, you put the witness for the prosecution on the stand. I’ll never forget it! You drew him out. You seemed hopeless of winning your case; you seemed to be questioning him simply as a matter of form to justify the collection of your fee. And the witness grew very confident. Finally you asked him the color of the necktie which Hanover was wearing when he committed the crime. The witness said without hesitation:

  “‘A red tie with white stripes.’

  “With that you clapped your hand over your own necktie, sprang to your feet, pointed a melodramatic hand at the witness, and thundered in your courtroom voice:

  “‘What color is the necktie that I’m wearing?’

  “The witness was dumfounded. He couldn’t tell. Then you turned to the jury and discredited all that witness’s testimony. You said you had been wearing the same necktie day after day in court, and the witness didn’t know what its color was. Then how could he be sure of the color of the necktie which Hanover wore, when he had only seen Hanover for a few seconds, committing the murder? It showed that the man was giving valueless testimony; that he was lying out of hand. And the jury acquitted your man. John, you can do some miraculous thing like that now for my friend, Harry McCurtney. You’ll find some way. Why else are you called Hole-in-the-Wall Barrett?”

  While she completed this impassioned appeal, John Barrett regarded her with utter unconcern. He might have been listening to the accomplishments of some fabulous character rather than to one of his own most spectacular exploits.

  “To be brief, Elizabeth,” he said, “I won’t take the case. I’ve other work planned for tomorrow.”

  And he turned to leave the room.

  Who but a villain could have turned his back on such a woman and at such a time? She stiffened; her head went back; there was a tremor of coming speech in her throat. “She is about to play her last card,” a gambler would have said, and she played it.

  “John!” she called.

  The villain turned only half toward her at the door.

  “There is another reason why you must defend McCurtney,” she said. “I love him!”

  It sufficed to make the villain turn squarely toward her, but he showed not the least emotion. His head bowed a little, thoughtfully.

  “Ah!” he repeated. “You love him?”

  And with that he shifted his glance up suddenly and met her eyes. She shrank back, trembling. One could see that she was expectant of a blow, a torrent of abuse. Instead, he smiled slowly at her.

  She made a little gesture. There seemed more appeal than anger in it.

  “You don’t care, John? I knew you didn’t care!”

  “If you love him,” said the villain slowly, “I suppose I don’t care.”

  “You never have,” she answered. “You merely bought me—with your courtroom eloquence, and your money—just as you would buy a fine piece of furniture. You wanted a decorative wife for your home—someone you could be proud to show.”

  It was not a quarrel, you see. For it happened in the twentieth century; happened yesterday, in fact. Neither of them raised their voices. There fell a little silence, and silences always make a woman explain.

  “I’ve tried to love you,” she said. “I’ve tried to break through that hard exterior you wear like armor. I’ve guessed at depths and tendernesses in you, but the only time I’ve heard poetry in your voice was when you said before the minister, ‘I will!’ Since then I’ve waited for a touch of that sound to come back into your voice, but it never has, and gradually I’ve learned the truth—you never really cared for me.”

  John Barrett was a villain; also a vulgar man.

  “The proof of the pudding is in the eating,” he said. “If I haven’t seemed to love you, why—I haven’t.”

  And he grinned; it was not by any means a smile. She shuddered as if those hands of his, made for gripping great burdens, had closed on a vital nerve that ran to her heart. She turned away, veiling her eyes with her hand. Surely it was strange that a man could give up such beauty!

  “And will you defend him?” she asked in a whisper.

  “If you love him,” said Barrett, “I shall set him free for you. Good night, Elizabeth!”

  He strode out of the room. She ran after him a few steps and followed him with her eyes down the long vista of the rooms; but the massive shoulders went on their way with characteristic swagger; the bowed thoughtful head never once cast back a glance toward her.

  “It is done!” said the beautiful woman, and sank into a chair.

  Her eyes were half clos
ed, and she smiled—the smile of the twentieth-century woman, which is harder to read than the smile of the Sphinx.

  I I

  The next afternoon she sat in a front seat in the courtroom and bent eyes of sad sympathy upon Harry McCurtney. There were others who looked on him in the same way. They were not, to be sure, quite like the beautiful woman, but then they were fair enough to have filled up a motion-picture background.

  What woman under thirty could look upon him without some such sad emotion? He was very young; he was very handsome. The brown eyes were as soft and liquid as the eyes of a thoughtful Byron—or a calf. That tall forehead and that long, pale face—they brought home all the romantic melancholy of life to a woman under thirty. Even the twelve good men and true felt some ruth as they glanced on him who was about to die; but being hardheaded fellows, those twelve, they looked away again and cleared their throats and frowned. Metaphorically speaking, they were rolling up their sleeves and preparing to grasp the knife from the hands of blind justice.

  The hero knew it. He turned those large, soft eyes on the jurors, and then flicked them swiftly away and let them journey from one fair face to another along the benches of the courtroom. And at last, as one overcome by the woes of life, he bowed his head and veiled his eyes with his long, white, tremulous fingers. A beautiful hand! It should have rested upon velvet; should have toyed with locks of golden hair, or blue-black hair— Elizabeth’s hair was blue-black.