The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  “Can’t think of nobody who’d stop you.”

  “That your house over there? You rent that?”

  He pointed to a broken-backed ruin which stood on the point of land that jutted out onto the waters of the lake, a crumbling structure slowly blackening with time.

  “Nope.”

  A shadow of a frown crossed the face of the stranger and was gone again more quickly than a cloud shadow brushed over the window on a windy city in March.

  “Well,” he said, “this place looks pretty good to me. Ever fish those streams?”

  “Don’t eat fish.”

  “I’ll wager you’re missing some first-class trout, though. By Jove, I’d like to cast a couple of times over some of the pools I’ve passed in the last hour! By the way, who owns that house over there?”

  “Same feller that owns this land.”

  “That so? What’s his name?”

  The other lifted his shaggy eyebrows and stared at the stranger.

  “Ain’t been long around here, eh?”

  “No.”

  “William Drew, he owns that house.”

  “William Drew?” repeated the rider, as though imprinting the word on his memory. “Is he home?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll ride over and ask him if he can put me up.”

  “Wait a minute. He may be home, but he lives on the other side of the range.”

  “Very far from here?”

  “Apiece.”

  “How’ll I know him when I see him?”

  “Big feller—grey—broad shoulders.”

  “Ah!” murmured the other, and smiled as though the picture pleased him. “I’ll hunt him up and ask him if I can camp out in this house of his for a while.”

  “Well, that’s your party.”

  “Don’t you think he’d let me?”

  “Maybe; but the house ain’t lucky.”

  “That so?”

  “Sure. There’s a grave in front of it.”

  “A grave? Whose?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Well, it doesn’t worry me. I’ll drop over the hill and see Drew.”

  “Maybe you’d better wait. You’ll be passin’ him on the road, like as not.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He comes over here on Tuesdays once a month; to-morrow he’s about due.”

  “Good. In the meantime I can camp over there by that stream, eh?”

  “Don’t know of nobody who’d stop you.”

  “By the way, what brings Drew over here every month?”

  “Never asked him. I was brung up not to ask questions.”

  The stranger accepted this subtle rebuke with such an open, infectious laugh that the shepherd smiled in the very act of spitting at the stone, with the result that he missed it by whole inches.

  “I’ll answer some of the questions you haven’t asked, then. My name is Anthony Bard and I’m out here seeing the mountains and having a bully time in general with my rod and gun.”

  The sad eyes regarded him without interest, but Bard swung from his horse and advanced with outstretched hand.

  “I may be about here for a few days and we might as well get acquainted, eh? I’ll promise to lay off the questions.”

  “I’m Logan.”

  “Glad to know you, Mr. Logan.”

  “Same t’you. Don’t happen to have no fine-cut about you?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “So’m I. Ran out an’ now all I’ve got is plug. Kind of hard on the teeth an’ full of molasses.”

  “I’ve some pipe tobacco, though, which might do.”

  He produced a pouch which Logan opened, taking from it a generous pinch.

  “Looks kind of like fine-cut—smells kind of like the real thing”—here he removed the quid from his mouth and introduced the great pinch of tobacco—“an’ I’ll be damned if it don’t taste a pile the same!”

  The misty eyes centred upon Bard and a light grew up in them.

  “Maybe you’d put a price on this tobacco, stranger?”

  “It’s yours,” said Bard, “to help you forget all the questions I’ve asked.”

  The shepherd acted at once lest the other might change his mind, dumping the contents of the pouch into the breast pocket of his shirt. Afterward his gaze sought the dim summits of the Little Brothers, and a sad, great resolution grew up and hardened the lines of his sallow face.

  “You can camp with me if you want—partner.”

  A cough, hastily summoned, covered Bard’s smile.

  “Thanks awfully, but I’m used to camping alone—and rather like it that way.”

  “Which I’d say, the same goes here,” responded the shepherd with infinite relief, “I ain’t got much use for company—away from a bar. But I could show you a pretty neat spot for a camp, over there by the river.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll explore for myself.”

  He swung again into the saddle and trotted whistling down the slope toward the creek which Logan had pointed out. But once fairly out of sight in the second-growth forest, he veered sharply to the right, touched his tough cattle-pony with the spurs, and headed at a racing pace straight for the old ruined house.

  Even from a distance the house appeared unmistakably done for, but not until he came close at hand could Bard appreciate the full extent of the ruin. Every individual board appeared to be rotting and crumbling toward the ground, awaiting the shake of one fierce gust of wind to disappear in a cloud of mouldy dust. He left his horse with the reins hanging over its head behind the house and entered by the back door. One step past the threshold brought him misadventure, for his foot drove straight through the rotten flooring and his leg disappeared up to the knee.

  After that he proceeded more cautiously, following the lines of the beams on which the boards were nailed, but even these shook and groaned under his weight. A whimsical fancy made him think of the fabled boat of Charon which will float a thousand bodiless spirits over the Styx but which sinks to the water-line with the weight of a single human being.

  So he passed forward like one in a fabric of spider-webs almost fearing to breathe lest the whole house should puff away to shreds before him. Half the boards, fallen from the ceiling, revealed the bare rafters above; below there were ragged holes in the flooring. In one place a limb, torn by lightning or wind from its overhanging tree, had crashed through the corner of the roof and dropped straight through to the ground.

  At last he reached a habitable room in the front of the house. It was a new shell built inside the old wreck, with four stout corner-posts supporting cross-beams, which in turn held up the mouldering roof. In the centre was a rude table and on either side a bunk built against the wall. Perhaps this was where Drew lived on the occasions of his visits to the old ranchhouse.

  Out of the gloom of the place, Bard stepped with a shrug of the shoulders, like one who shakes off the spell of a nightmare. He strode through the doorway and took the slant, warm sun of the afternoon full in his face.

  He found himself in front of the only spot on the entire premises which showed the slightest care, the mound of a grave under the shelter of two trees whose branches were interwoven overhead in a sort of impromptu roof. From the surface of the mound all the weeds and grasses had been carefully cleared away, and around its edge ran a path covered with gravel and sand. It was a wellbeaten path with the mark of heels still comparatively fresh upon it.

  The headstone itself bore not a vestige of moss, but time had cracked it diagonally and the chiselled letters were weathered away. He studied it with painful care, poring intently over each faint impression. He who cared for the grave had apparently been troubled only to keep the stone free from dirt—the lettering he must have known by heart. At length Bard made out this inscription:

  HERE SLEEPS

  JOAN

  WIFE OF WILLIAM DREW

  SHE CHOSE THIS PLACE FOR REST

  CHAPTER X

  A BIT OF STALKING

  It seemed
as if the peaceful afternoons of Logan were ended forever, for the next day the scene of interruption was repeated under almost identical circumstances, save that the tree under which the shepherd sat was a little larger. Larger also was the man who rode over the brow of the hill to the east. The most durable cattle-pony would have staggered under the bulk of that rider, and therefore he rode a great, patient-eyed bay, with shoulders worthy of shoving against a work-collar; but the neck tapered down small behind a short head, and the legs, for all their breadth at shoulder and hip, slipped away to small hoofs, and ankles which sloped sharply to the rear, the sure sign of the fine saddle-horse.

  Yet the strong horse was winded by the burden he bore, a mighty figure, deep-chested, amply shouldered, an ideal cavalier for the days when youths rode out in armour-plate to seek adventures and when men of fifty still lifted the lance to run a “friendly” course or two in the lists.

  At sight of him Logan so far bestirred himself as to uncoil his long legs, rise, and stand with one shoulder propped against the tree.

  “Evening, Mr. Drew,” he called.

  “Hello, Logan. How’s everything with you?”

  He would have ridden on, but at Logan’s reply he checked his horse to a slow walk.

  “Busy. Lots of company lately, Mr. Drew.”

  “Company?”

  “Yes, there’s a young feller come along who says he wants to see you. He’s over there by the creek now, fishin’ I think. I told him I’d holler if I seen you, but I guess you wouldn’t mind ridin’ over that way yourself.”

  Drew brought his horse to a halt.

  “What does he want of me?”

  “Dunno. Something about wanting to hunt and fish on your streams here.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him he was welcome to do what he liked? Must be an Easterner, Logan.”

  “Wants to bunk in the old house, too. Seems sort of interested in it.”

  “That so? What sort of a fellow is he?”

  “All right. A bit talky. Green; but he rides damn well, an’ he smokes good tobacco.”

  His hand automatically rose and touched his breast pocket.

  “I’ll go over to him,” said Drew, and swung his horse to the left, but only to come again to a halt.

  He called over his shoulder: “What sort of a looking fellow?”

  “Pretty keen—dark,” answered Logan, slipping down into his original position. “Thin face; black eyes.”

  “Ah, yes,” murmured Drew, and started at a trot for the creek.

  Once more he imitated the actions of Bard the day before, however, for no sooner had the trees screened him thoroughly from the eyes of Logan than he abandoned his direct course for the creek. He swung from the saddle with an ease surprising in a man of such age and bulk and tossed the reins over the head of the horse.

  Then he commenced a cautious stalking through the woods, silent as an Indian, stealthy of foot, with eyes that glanced sharply in all directions. Once a twig snapped under foot, and after that he remained motionless through a long moment, shrinking against the trunk of a tree and scanning the forest anxiously in all directions. At length he ventured out again, grown doubly cautious. In this manner he worked his way up the course of the stream, always keeping the waters just within sight but never passing out on the banks, where the walking would have been tenfold easier. So he came in sight of a figure far off through the trees.

  If he had been cautious before, he became now as still as night. Dropping to hands and knees, or crouching almost as prone, he moved from the shadow of one tree to the next, now and then venturing a glance to make sure that he was pursuing the right course, until he manoeuvred to a point of vantage which commanded a clear view of Bard.

  The latter was fishing, with his back to Drew. Again and again he cast his fly out under an overhanging limb which shadowed a deep pool. The big grey man set his teeth and waited with the patience of a stalking beast of prey, or a cat which will sit half the day waiting for the mouse to show above the opening of its hole.

  Apparently there was a bite at length. The pole bent almost double and the reel played back and forth rapidly as the fisher wore down his victim. Finally he came close to the edge of the stream, dipped his net into the water, and jerked it up at once bearing a twisting, shining trout enwrapped in the meshes. Swinging about as he did so, Drew caught his first full glimpse of Anthony’s face, and knew him for the man who had ridden the wild horse at Madison Square Garden those weeks before.

  Perhaps it was astonishment that moved the big man—surely it could not have been fear—yet he knelt there behind the sheltering tree grey-faced, wide, and blank of eye, as a man might look who dreamed and awoke to see his vision standing before him in full sunlit life. What his expression became then could not be said, for he buried his face in his hands and his great body shook with a tremor. If this was not fear it was something very like.

  And very like a man in fear he stole back among the trees as cautiously as he had made his approach. Resuming his horse he rode straight for Logan.

  “Couldn’t find your young friend,” he said, “along the creek.”

  “Why,” said Logan, “I can reach him with a holler from here, I think.”

  “Never mind; just tell him that he’s welcome to do what he pleases on the place; and he can bunk down at the house if he wants to. I’d like to know his name, though.”

  “That’s easy. Anthony Bard.”

  “Ah,” said Drew slowly, “Anthony Bard!”

  “That’s it,” nodded Logan, and fixed a curious eye upon the big grey rider.

  As if to escape from that inquiring scrutiny, Drew wheeled his horse and spurred at a sharp gallop up the hill, leaving Logan frowning behind.

  “No stay over night,” muttered the shepherd. “No fooling about that damned old shack of a house; what’s wrong with Drew?”

  He answered himself, for all shepherds are forced by the bitter loneliness of their work to talk with themselves. “The old boy’s worried. Damned if he isn’t! I’ll keep an eye on this Bard feller.”

  And he loosened the revolver in its holster.

  He might have been even more concerned had he seen the redoubled speed with which Drew galloped as soon as the hilltop was between him and Logan. Straight on he pushed his horse, not exactly like one who fled but rather more like one too busy with consuming thoughts to pay the slightest heed to the welfare of his mount. It was a spent horse on which he trotted late that night up to the big, yawning door of his barn.

  “Where’s Nash?” he asked of the man who took his horse.

  “Playing a game with the boys in the bunk-house, sir.”

  So past the bunk-house Drew went on his way to his dwelling, knocked, and threw open the door. Inside, a dozen men, seated at or standing around a table, looked up.

  “Nash!”

  “Here.”

  “On the jump, Nash. I’m in a hurry.”

  There rose a man of a build much prized in pugilistic circles. In those same circles he would have been described as a fellow with a fighting face and a heavy-weight above the hips and a light-weight below—a handsome fellow, except that his eyes were a little too small and his lips a trifle too thin. He rose now in the midst of a general groan of dismay, and scooped in a considerable stack of gold as well as several bright piles of silver; he was undoubtedly taking the glory of the game with him.

  “Is this square?” growled one of the men clenching his fist on the edge of the table.

  The sardonic smile hardened on the lips of Nash as he answered: “Before you’ve been here much longer, Pete, you’ll find out that about everything I do is square. Sorry to leave you, boys, before you’re broke, but orders is orders.”

  “But one more hand first,” pleaded Pete.

  “You poor fool,” snarled Nash, “d’you think I’ll take a chance on keepin’ _him_ waiting?”

  The last of his winnings passed with a melodious jingling into his pockets and he went hurriedly out of the
bunk-house and up to the main building. There he found Drew in the room which the rancher used as an office, and stood at the door hat in hand.

  “Come in; sit down,” said “_him_.” “Been taking the money from the boys again, Steve? I thought I talked with you about that a month ago?”

  “It’s this way, Mr. Drew,” explained Nash, “with me stayin’ away from the cards is like a horse stayin’ off its feed. Besides, I done the square thing by the lot of those short-horns.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I showed ’em my hand.”

  “Told them you were a professional gambler?”

  “Sure. I explained they didn’t have no chance against me.”

  “And of course that made them throw every cent they had against you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It can’t go on, Nash.”

  “Look here, Mr. Drew. I told ’em that I wasn’t a gambler but just a gold-digger.”

  The big man could not restrain his smile, though it came like a shadow of mirth rather than the sunlight.

  “After all, they might as well lose it to you as to someone else.”

  “Sure,” grinned Nash, “it keeps it in the family, eh?”

  “But one of these days, Steve, crooked cards will be the end of you.”

  “I’m still pretty fast on the draw,” said Steve sullenly.

  “All right. That’s your business. Now I want you to listen to some of mine.”

  “Real work?”

  “Your own line.”

  “That,” said Nash, with a smile of infinite meaning, “sounds like the dinner bell to me. Let her go, sir!”

  CHAPTER XI

  THE QUEST BEGINS

  “You know the old place on the other side of the range?”

  “Like a book. I got pet names for all the trees.”

  “There’s a man there I want.”

  “Logan?”

  “No. His name is Bard.”

  “H-m! Any relation of the old bird that was partners with you back about the year one?”

  “I want Anthony Bard brought here,” said. Drew, entirely overlooking the question.

  “Easy. I can make the trip in a buckboard and I’ll dump him in the back of it.”