The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  “‘Where does your folks live at?’ says I.

  “‘Oh, they live around here,’ says he, an’ he waved his hand again, an’ this time over towards the east.

  “Says I: ‘When do you figure on reachin’ home?’

  “‘Oh, most any day,’ says he.

  “An’ I looked around at them brown, naked hills with the night comin’ down over them. Then I stared back at the boy an’ there was something that come up in me like hunger. You see, he was lost; he was alone; the queer ring of his whistlin’ was still in my ears; an’ I couldn’t help rememberin’ that I didn’t have no son.

  “‘Then supposin’ you come along with me,’ says I, ‘an’ I’ll send you home in a buckboard tomorrow?’

  “So the end of it was me ridin’ home with the little kid sittin’ up before me, whistlin’ his heart out! When I got him home I tried to talk to him again. He couldn’t tell me, or he wouldn’t tell me where his folks lived, but jest kept wavin’ his hand liberal to half the points of the compass. An’ that’s all I know of where he come from. I done all I could to find his parents. I inquired and sent letters to every rancher within a hundred miles. I advertised it through the railroads, but they said nobody’d yet been reported lost. He was still mine, at least for a while, an’ I was terrible glad.

  “I give the kid a spare room. I sat up late that first night listenin’ to the wild geese honkin’ away up in the sky an’ wonderin’ why I was so happy. Kate, that night there was tears in my eyes when I thought of how that kid had been out there on the hills walkin’ along so happy an’ independent.

  “But the next mornin’ he was gone. I sent my cowpunchers out to look for him.

  “‘Which way shall we ride?’ they asked.

  “I don’t know why, but I thought of the wild geese that Dan had seemed to be followin’.

  “‘Ride north,’ I said.

  “An’ sure enough, they rode north an’ found him. After that I didn’t have no trouble with him about runnin’ away—at least not durin’ the summer. An’ all those months I kept plannin’ how I would take care of this boy who had come wanderin’ to me. It seemed like he was sort of a gift of God to make up for me havin’ no son. And everythin’ went well until the next fall, when the geese began to fly south.

  “Sure enough, that was when Dan ran away again, and when I sent my cowpunchers south after him, they found him and brought him back. It seemed as if they’d brought back half the world to me, when I seen him. But I saw that I’d have to put a stop to this runnin’ away. I tried to talk to him, but all he’d say was that he’d better be movin’ on. I took the law in my hands an’ told him he had to be disciplined. So I started thrashin’ him with a quirt, very light. He took it as if he didn’t feel the whip on his shoulders, an’ he smiled. But there came up a yellow light in his eyes that made me feel as if a man was standin’ right behind me with a bare knife in his hand an’ smilin’ jest like the kid was doin’. Finally I simply backed out of the room, an’ since that day there ain’t been man or beast ever has put a hand on Whistlin’ Dan. To this day I reckon he ain’t quite forgiven me.”

  “Why!” she cried, “I have never heard him mention it!”

  “That’s why I know he’s not forgotten it. Anyway, Kate, I locked him in his room, but he wouldn’t promise not to run away. Then I got an inspiration. You was jest a little toddlin’ thing then. That day you was cryin’ an awful lot an’ I suddenly thought of puttin’ you in Dan’s room. I did it. I jest unlocked the door quick and then shoved you in an’ locked it again. First of all you screamed terrible hard. I was afraid maybe you’d hurt yourself yellin’ that way. I was about to take you out again when all at once I heard Dan start whistlin’ and pretty quick your cryin’ stopped. I listened an’ wondered. After that I never had to lock Dan in his room. I was sure he’d stay on account of you. But now, honey, I’m gettin’ to the end of the story, an’ I’m goin’ to give you the straight idea the way I see it.

  “I’ve watched Dan like—like a father, almost. I think he loves me, sort of—but I’ve never got over being afraid of him. You see I can’t forget how he smiled when I licked him! But listen to me, Kate, that fear has been with me all the time—an’ it’s the only time I’ve ever been afraid of any man. It isn’t like being scared of a man, but of a panther.

  “Now we’ll jest nacherally add up all the points we’ve made about Dan—the queer way I found him without a home an’ without wantin’ one—that strength he has that’s like the power of a mule compared with a horse—that funny control he has over wild animals so that they almost seem to know what he means when he simply looks at them (have you noticed him with Black Bart and Satan?)—then there’s the yellow light that comes in his eyes when he begins to get real mad—you an’ I have both seen it only once, but we don’t want to see it again! More than this there’s the way he handles either a knife or a gun. He hasn’t practiced much with shootin’ irons, but I never seen him miss a reasonable mark—or an unreasonable one either, for that matter. I’ve spoke to him about it. He said: ‘I dunno how it is. I don’t see how a feller can shoot crooked. It jest seems that when I get out a gun there’s a line drawn from the barrel to the thing I’m shootin’ at. All I have to do is to pull the trigger—almost with my eyes closed!’ Now, Kate, do you begin to see what these here things point to?”

  “Tell me what you see,” she said, “and then I’ll tell you what I think of it all.”

  “All right,” he said. “I see in Dan a man who’s different from the common run of us. I read in a book once that in the ages when men lived like animals an’ had no weapons except sticks and stones, their muscles must have been two or three times as strong as they are now—more like the muscles of brutes. An’ their hearin’ an’ their sight an’ their quickness an’ their endurance was about three times more than that of ordinary men. Kate, I think that Dan is one of those men the book described! He knows animals because he has all the powers that they have. An’ I know from the way his eyes go yellow that he has the fightin’ instinct of the ancestors of man. So far I’ve kept him away from other men. Which I may say is the main reason I bought Dan Morgan’s place so’s to keep fightin’ men away from our Whistlin’ Dan. So I’ve been hidin’ him from himself. You see, he’s my boy if he belongs to anybody. Maybe when time goes on he’ll get tame. But I reckon not. It’s like takin’ a panther cub—or a wolf pup—an tryin’ to raise it for a pet. Some day it gets the taste of blood, maybe its own blood, an’ then it goes mad and becomes a killer. An’ that’s what I fear, Kate. So far I’ve kept Dan from ever havin’ a single fight, but I reckon the day’ll come when someone’ll cross him, and then there’ll be a tornado turned loose that’ll jest about wreck these parts.”

  Her anger had grown during this speech. Now she rose.

  “I won’t believe you, Dad,” she said. “I’d sooner trust our Dan than any man alive. I don’t think you’re right in a single word!”

  “I was sure loco,” sighed Cumberland, “to ever dream of convincin’ a woman. Let it drop, Kate. We’re about to get rid of Morgan’s place, an’ now I reckon there won’t be any temptation near Dan. We’ll see what time’ll do for him. Let the thing drop there. Now I’m goin’ over to the Bar XO outfit an’ I won’t be back till late tonight. There’s only one thing more. I told Morgan there wasn’t to be any gun-play in his place today. If you hear any shootin’ go down there an’ remind Morgan to take the guns off’n the men.”

  Kate nodded, but her stare travelled far away, and the thing she saw was the yellow light burning in the eyes of Whistling Dan.

  CHAPTER III

  SILENT SHOOTS

  It was a great day and also a sad one for Morgan. His general store and saloon had been bought out by old Joe Cumberland, who declared a determination to clear up the landscape, and thereby plunged the cowpunchers in gloom. They partially forgave Cumberland, but only because he was an old man. A younger reformer would have met armed resistance. Morgan’s pl
ace was miles away from the next oasis in the desert and the closing meant dusty, thirsty leagues of added journey to every man in the neighbourhood. The word “neighbourhood,” of course, covered a territory fifty miles square.

  If the day was very sad for this important reason, it was also very glad, for rustling Morgan advertised the day of closing far and wide, and his most casual patrons dropped all business to attend the big doings. A long line of buckboards and cattle ponies surrounded the place. Newcomers gallopped in every few moments. Most of them did not stop to tether their mounts, but simply dropped the reins over the heads of the horses and then went with rattling spurs and slouching steps into the saloon. Every man was greeted by a shout, for one or two of those within usually knew him, and when they raised a cry the others joined in for the sake of good fellowship. As a rule he responded by ordering everyone up to the bar.

  One man, however, received no more greeting than the slamming of the door behind him. He was a tall, handsome fellow with tawny hair and a little smile of habit rather than mirth upon his lips. He had ridden up on a strong bay horse, a full two hands taller than the average cattle pony, and with legs and shoulders and straight back that unmistakably told of a blooded pedigree. When he entered the saloon he seemed nowise abashed by the silence, but greeted the turned heads with a wave of the hand and a good-natured “Howdy, boys!” A volley of greetings replied to him, for in the mountain-desert men cannot be strangers after the first word.

  “Line up and hit the red-eye,” he went on, and leaning against the bar as he spoke, his habitual smile broadened into one of actual invitation. Except for a few groups who watched the gambling in the corners of the big room, there was a general movement towards the bar.

  “And make it a tall one, boys,” went on the genial stranger. “This is the first time I ever irrigated Morgan’s place, and from what I have heard today about the closing I suppose it will be the last time. So here’s to you, Morgan!”

  And he waved his glass towards the bartender. His voice was well modulated and his enunciation bespoke education. This, in connection with his careful clothes and rather modish riding-boots, might have given him the reputation of a dude, had it not been for several other essential details of his appearance. His six-gun hung so low that he would scarcely have to raise his hand to grasp the butt. He held his whisky glass in his left hand, and the right, which rested carelessly on his hip, was deeply sunburned, as if he rarely wore a glove. Moreover, his eyes were marvellously direct, and they lingered a negligible space as they touched on each man in the room. All of this the cattlemen noted instantly. What they did not see on account of his veiling fingers was that he poured only a few drops of the liquor into his glass.

  In the meantime another man who had never before “irrigated” at Morgan’s place, rode up. His mount, like that of the tawny-haired rider, was considerably larger and more finely built than the common range horse. In three days of hard work a cattle pony might wear down these blooded animals, but would find it impossible to either overtake or escape them in a straight run. The second stranger, short-legged, barrel-chested, and with a scrub of black beard, entered the barroom while the crowd was still drinking the health of Morgan. He took a corner chair, pushed back his hat until a mop of hair fell down his forehead, and began to roll a cigarette. The man of the tawny hair took the next seat.

  “Seems to be quite a party, stranger,” said the tall fellow nonchalantly.

  “Sure,” growled he of the black beard, and after a moment he added: “Been out on the trail long, pardner?”

  “Hardly started.”

  “So’m I.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a lot of hard riding before me.”

  “So’ve I.”

  “And some long riding, too.”

  Perhaps it was because he turned his head suddenly towards the light, but a glint seemed to come in the eyes of the bearded man.

  “Long rides,” he said more amiably, “are sure hell on hosses.”

  “And on men, too,” nodded the other, and tilted back in his chair.

  The bearded man spoke again, but though a dozen cowpunchers were close by no one heard his voice except the man at his side. One side of his face remained perfectly immobile and his eyes stared straight before him drearily while he whispered from a corner of his mouth: “How long do you stay, Lee?”

  “Noon,” said Lee.

  Once more the shorter man spoke in the manner which is learned in a penitentiary: “Me too. We must be slated for the same ride, Lee. Do you know what it is? It’s nearly noon, and the chief ought to be here.”

  There was a loud greeting for a newcomer, and Lee took advantage of the noise to say quite openly: “If Silent said he’ll come, he’ll be here. But I say he’s crazy to come to a place full of range riders, Bill.”

  “Take it easy,” responded Bill. “This hangout is away off our regular beat. Nobody’ll know him.”

  “His hide is his own and he can do what he wants with it,” said Lee. “I warned him before.”

  “Shut up,” murmured Bill, “Here’s Jim now, and Hal Purvis with him!”

  Through the door strode a great figure before whom the throng at the bar gave way as water rolls back from the tall prow of a ship. In his wake went a little man with a face dried and withered by the sun and small bright eyes which moved continually from side to side. Lee and Bill discovered their thirst at the same time and made towards the newcomers.

  They had no difficulty in reaching them. The large man stood with his back to the bar, his elbows spread out on it, so that there was a little space left on either side of him. No one cared to press too close to this sombre-faced giant. Purvis stood before him and Bill and Lee were instantly at his side. The two leaned on the bar, facing him, yet the four did not seem to make a group set apart from the rest.

  “Well?” asked Lee.

  “I’ll tell you what it is when we’re on the road,” said Jim Silent. “Plenty of time, Haines.”

  “Who’ll start first?” asked Bill.

  “You can, Kilduff,” said the other. “Go straight north, and go slow. Then Haines will follow you. Purvis next. I come last because I got here last. There ain’t any hurry—What’s this here?”

  “I tell you I seen it!” called an angry voice from a corner.

  “You must of been drunk an’ seein’ double, partner,” drawled the answer.

  “Look here!” said the first man, “I’m willin’ to take that any way you mean it!”

  “An’ I’m willin’,” said the other, “that you should take it any way you damn please.”

  Everyone in the room was grave except Jim Silent and his three companions, who were smiling grimly.

  “By God, Jack,” said the first man with ominous softness, “I’ll take a lot from you but when it comes to doubtin’ my word——”

  Morgan, with popping eyes and a very red face, slapped his hand on the bar and vaulted over it with more agility than his plumpness warranted. He shouldered his way hurriedly through the crowd to the rapidly widening circle around the two disputants. They stood with their right hands resting with rigid fingers low down on their hips, and their eyes, fixed on each other, forgot the rest of the world. Morgan burst in between them.

  “Look here,” he thundered, “it’s only by way of a favour that I’m lettin’ you boys wear shootin’ irons today because I promised old Cumberland there wouldn’t be no fuss. If you got troubles there’s enough room for you to settle them out in the hills, but there ain’t none at all in here!”

  The gleam went out of their eyes like four candles snuffed by the wind. Obviously they were both glad to have the tension broken. Mike wiped his forehead with a rather unsteady hand.

  “I ain’t huntin’ for no special brand of trouble,” he said, “but Jack has been ridin’ the red-eye pretty hard and it’s gotten into that dried up bean he calls his brain.”

  “Say, partner,” drawled Jack, “I ain’t drunk enough of the hot stuff t
o make me fall for the line you’ve been handing out.”

  He turned to Morgan.

  “Mike, here, has been tryin’ to make me believe that he knew a feller who could drill a dollar at twenty yards every time it was tossed up.”

  The crowd laughed, Morgan loudest of all.

  “Did you anyways have Whistlin’ Dan in mind?” he asked.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Mike, “an’ I didn’t say this here man I was talkin’ about could drill them every time. But he could do it two times out of four.”

  “Mike,” said Morgan, and he softened his disbelief with his smile and the good-natured clap on the shoulder, “you sure must of been drinkin’ when you seen him do it. I allow Whistlin’ Dan could do that an’ more, but he ain’t human with a gun.”

  “How d’you know?” asked Jack, “I ain’t ever seen him packin’ a six-gun.”

  “Sure you ain’t,” answered Morgan, “but I have, an’ I seen him use it, too. It was jest sort of by chance I saw it.”

  “Well,” argued Mike anxiously, “then you allow it’s possible if Whistlin’ Dan can do it. An’ I say I seen a chap who could turn the trick.”

  “An’ who in hell is this Whistlin’ Dan?” asked Jim Silent.

  “He’s the man that caught Satan, an’ rode him,” answered a bystander.

  “Some man if he can ride the devil,” laughed Lee Haines.

  “I mean the black mustang that ran wild around here for a couple of years. Some people tell tales about him being a wonder with a gun. But Morgan’s the only one who claims to have seen him work.”

  “Maybe you did see it, and maybe you didn’t,” Morgan was saying to Mike noncommittally, “but there’s some pretty fair shots in this room, which I’d lay fifty bucks no man here could hit a dollar with a six-gun at twenty paces.”

  “While they’re arguin’,” said Bill Kilduff, “I reckon I’ll hit the trail.”

  “Wait a minute,” grinned Jim Silent, “an’ watch me have some fun with these short-horns.”

  He spoke more loudly: “Are you makin’ that bet for the sake of arguin’, partner, or do you calculate to back it up with cold cash?”