The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  “Do you figger you’ll find it?” asked a quiet voice behind him.

  He turned and looked into the steady muzzle of a Colt. Behind that revolver was a thin, handsome face with a lock of jet black hair falling over the forehead. Calder knew men, and now he felt a strange absence of any desire to attempt a gun-play.

  “I was just taking a stroll through the willows,” he said, with a mighty attempt at carelessness.

  “Oh,” said the other. “It appeared to me you was sort of huntin’ for something. You was headed straight for my hoss.”

  Calder strove to find some way out. He could not. There was no waver in the hand that held that black gun. The brown eyes were decidedly discouraging to any attempt at a surprise. He felt helpless for the first time in his career.

  “Go over to him, Bart,” said the gentle voice of the stranger. “Stand fast!”

  The last two words, directed to Calder came, with a metallic hardness, for the marshal started as a great black dog slipped from behind a tree and slunk towards him. This was the shadow which moved more swiftly and noiselessly than a human being.

  “Keep back that damned wolf,” he said desperately.

  “He ain’t goin’ to hurt you,” said the calm voice. “Jest toss your gun to the ground.”

  There was nothing else for it. Calder dropped his weapon with the butt towards Whistling Dan.

  “Bring it here, Bart,” said the latter.

  The big animal lowered his head, still keeping his green eyes upon Calder, took up the revolver in his white fangs, and glided back to his master.

  “Jest turn your back to me, an’ keep your hands clear of your body,” said Dan.

  Calder obeyed, sweating with shame. He felt a hand pat his pockets lightly in search for a hidden weapon, and then, with his head slightly turned, he sensed the fact that Dan was dropping his revolver into its holster. He whirled and drove his clenched fist straight at Dan’s face.

  What happened then he would never forget to the end of his life. Calder’s weapon still hung in Dan’s right hand, but the latter made no effort to use it. He dropped the gun, and as Calder’s right arm shot out, it was caught at the wrist, and jerked down with a force that jarred his whole body.

  “Down, Bart!” shouted Dan. The great wolf checked in the midst of his leap and dropped, whining with eagerness, at Calder’s feet. At the same time the marshal’s left hand was seized and whipped across his body. He wrenched away with all his force. He might as well have struggled with steel manacles. He was helpless, staring into eyes which now glinted with a yellow light that sent a cold wave tingling through his blood.

  The yellow gleam died; his hands were loosed; but he made no move to spring at Dan’s throat. Chill horror had taken the place of his shame, and the wolf-dog still whined at his feet with lips grinned back from the long white teeth.

  “Who in the name of God are you?” he gasped, and even as he spoke the truth came to him—the whistling—the panther-like speed of hand—“Whistling Dan Barry.”

  The other frowned.

  “If you didn’t know my name why were you trailin’ me?”

  “I wasn’t after you,” said Calder.

  “You was crawlin’ along like that jest for fun? Friend, I figger to know you. You been sent out by the tall man to lay for me.”

  “What tall man?” asked Calder, his wits groping.

  “The one that swung the chair in Morgan’s place,” said Dan. “Now you’re goin’ to take me to your camp. I got something to say to him.”

  “By the Lord!” cried the marshal, “you’re trailing Silent.”

  Dan watched him narrowly. It was hard to accuse those keen black eyes of deceit.

  “I’m trailin’ the man who sent you out after me,” he asserted with a little less assurance.

  Calder tore open the front of his shirt and pushed back one side of it. Pinned there next to his skin was his marshal’s badge.

  He said: “My name’s Tex Calder.”

  It was a word to conjure with up and down the vast expanse of the mountain-desert. Dan smiled, and the change of expression made him seem ten years younger.

  “Git down, Bart. Stand behind me!” The dog obeyed sullenly. “I’ve heard a pile of men talk about you, Tex Calder.” Their hands and their eyes met. There was a mutual respect in the glances. “An’ I’m a pile sorry for this.”

  He picked up the gun from the ground and extended it butt first to the marshal, who restored it slowly to the holster. It was the first time it had ever been forced from his grasp.

  “Who was it you talked about a while ago?” asked Dan.

  “Jim Silent.”

  Dan instinctively dropped his hand back to his revolver.

  “The tall man?”

  “The one you fought with in Morgan’s place.”

  The unpleasant gleam returned to Dan’s eyes.

  “I thought there was only one reason why he should die, but now I see there’s a heap of ’em.”

  Calder was all business.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “About a day.”

  “Have you seen anything of Silent here among the willows?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think he’s still here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. I’ll stay here till I find him among the trees or he breaks away into the open.”

  “How’ll you know when he leaves the willows?”

  Whistling Dan was puzzled.

  “I dunno,” he answered. “Somethin’ will tell me when he gets far away from me—he an’ his men.”

  “It’s an inner sense, eh? Like the smell of the bloodhound?” said Calder, but his eyes were strangely serious.

  “This day’s about done,” he went on. “Have you any objections to me camping with you here?”

  Not a cowpuncher within five hundred miles but would be glad of such redoubted company. They went back to Calder’s horse.

  “We can start for my clearing,” said Dan. “Bart’ll bring the hoss. Fetch him in.”

  The wolf took the dangling bridle reins and led on the cowpony. Calder observed his performance with starting eyes, but he was averse to asking questions. In a few moments they came out on a small open space. The ground was covered with a quantity of dried bunch grass which a glorious black stallion was cropping. Now he tossed up his head so that some of his long mane fell forward between his ears and at sight of Calder his ears dropped back and his eyes blazed, but when Dan stepped from the willows the ears came forward again with a whinny of greeting. Calder watched the beautiful animal with all the enthusiasm of an expert horseman. Satan was untethered; the saddle and bridle lay in a corner of the clearing; evidently the horse was a pet and would not leave its master. He spoke gently and stepped forward to caress the velvet shining neck, but Satan snorted and started away, trembling with excitement.

  “How can you keep such a wild fellow as this without hobbling him?” asked Calder.

  “He ain’t wild,” said Dan.

  “Why, he won’t let me put a hand on him.”

  “Yes, he will. Steady, Satan!”

  The stallion stood motionless with the veritable fires of hell in his eyes as Calder approached. The latter stopped.

  “Not for me,” he said. “I’d rather rub the moustache of the lion in the zoo than touch that black devil!”

  Bart at that moment led in the cowpony and Calder started to remove the saddle. He had scarcely done so and hobbled his horse when he was startled by a tremendous snarling and snorting. He turned to see the stallion plunging hither and thither, striking with his fore-hooves, while around him, darting in and out under the driving feet, sprang the great black wolf, his teeth clashing like steel on steel. In another moment they might sink in the throat of the horse! Calder, with an exclamation of horror, whipped out his revolver, but checked himself at the very instant of firing. The master of the two animals stood with arms folded, actual
ly smiling upon the fight!

  “For God’s sake!” cried the marshal. “Shoot the damned wolf, man, or he’ll have your horse by the throat!”

  “Leave ’em be,” said Dan, without turning his head. “Satan an’ Black Bart ain’t got any other dogs an’ hosses to run around with. They’s jest playing a little by way of exercise.”

  Calder stood agape before what seemed the incarnate fury of the pair. Then he noticed that those snapping fangs, however close they came, always missed the flesh of the stallion, and the driving hoofs never actually endangered the leaping wolf.

  “Stop ’em!” he cried at last. “It makes me nervous to watch that sort of play. It isn’t natural!”

  “All right,” said Dan. “Stop it, boys.”

  He had not raised his voice, but they ceased their wild gambols instantly, the stallion, with head thrown high and arched tail and heaving sides, while the wolf, with lolling red tongue, strolled calmly towards his master.

  The latter paid no further attention to them, but set about kindling a small fire over which to cook supper. Calder joined him. The marshal’s mind was too full for speech, but now and again he turned a long glance of wonder upon the stallion or Black Bart. In the same silence they sat under the last light of the sunset and ate their supper. Calder, with head bent, pondered over the man of mystery and his two tamed animals. Tamed? Not one of the three was tamed, the man least of all.

  He saw Dan pause from his eating to stare with wide, vacant eyes among the trees. The wolf-dog approached, looked up in his master’s face, whined softly, and getting no response went back to his place and lay down, his eyes never moving from Dan. Still he stared among the trees. The gloom deepened, and he smiled faintly. He began to whistle, a low, melancholy strain so soft that it blended with the growing hush of the night. Calder listened, wholly overawed. That weird music seemed an interpretation of the vast spaces of the mountains, of the pitiless desert, of the limitless silences, and the whistler was an understanding part of the whole.

  He became aware of a black shadow behind the musician. It was Satan, who rested his nose on the shoulder of the master. Without ceasing his whistling Dan raised a hand, touched the small muzzle, and Satan went at once to a side of the clearing and lay down. It was almost as if the two had said good-night! Calder could stand it no longer.

  “Dan, I’ve got to talk to you,” he began.

  The whistling ceased; the wide brown eyes turned to him.

  “Fire away—partner.”

  Ay, they had eaten together by the same fire—they had watched the coming of the night—they had shaken hands in friendship—they were partners. He knew deep in his heart that no human being could ever be the actual comrade of this man. This lord of the voiceless desert needed no human companionship; yet as the marshal glanced from the black shadow of Satan to the gleaming eyes of Bart, and then to the visionary face of Barry, he felt that he had been admitted by Whistling Dan into the mysterious company. The thought stirred him deeply. It was as if he had made an alliance with the wandering wind. Why he had been accepted he could not dream, but he had heard the word “partner” and he knew it was meant. After all, stranger things than this happen in the mountain-desert, where man is greater and convention less. A single word has been known to estrange lifelong comrades; a single evening beside a camp-fire has changed foes to partners. Calder drew his mind back to business with a great effort.

  “There’s one thing you don’t know about Jim Silent. A reward of ten thousand dollars lies on his head. The notices aren’t posted yet.”

  Whistling Dan shrugged his shoulders.

  “I ain’t after money,” he answered.

  Calder frowned. He did not appreciate a bluff.

  “Look here,” he said, “if we kill him, because no power on earth will take him alive—we’ll split the money.”

  “If you lay a hand on him,” said Dan, without emotion, “we won’t be friends no longer, I figger.”

  Calder stared.

  “If you don’t want to get him,” he said, “why in God’s name are you trailing him this way?”

  Dan touched his lips. “He hit me with his fist.”

  He paused, and spoke again with a drawling voice that gave his words an uncanny effect.

  “My blood went down from my mouth to my chin. I tasted it. Till I get him there ain’t no way of me forgettin’ him.”

  His eyes lighted with that ominous gleam.

  “That’s why no other man c’n put a hand on him. He’s laid out all for me. Understand?”

  The ring of the question echoed for a moment through Calder’s mind.

  “I certainly do,” he said with profound conviction, “and I’ll never forget it.” He decided on a change of tactics. “But there are other men with Jim Silent and those men will fight to keep you from getting to him.”

  “I’m sorry for ’em,” said Dan gently. “I ain’t got nothin’ agin any one except the big man.”

  Calder took a long breath.

  “Don’t you see,” he explained carefully, “if you shoot one of these men you are simply a murderer who must be apprehended by the law and punished.”

  “It makes it bad for me, doesn’t it?” said Dan. “An’ I hope I won’t have to hurt more’n one or two of ’em. You see,”—he leaned forward seriously towards Calder—“I’d only shoot for their arms or their legs. I wouldn’t spoil them altogether.”

  Calder threw up his hands in despair. Black Bart snarled at the gesture.

  “I can’t listen no more,” said Dan. “I got to start explorin’ the willows pretty soon.”

  “In the dark?” exclaimed Calder.

  “Sure. Black Bart’ll go with me. The dark don’t bother him.”

  “I’ll go along.”

  “I’d rather be alone. I might meet him.”

  “Any way you want,” said Calder, “but first hear my plan—it doesn’t take long to tell it.”

  The darkness thickened around them while he talked. The fire died out—the night swallowed up their figures.

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE LONE RIDERS ENTERTAIN

  When Lee Haines rode into Silent’s camp that evening no questions were asked. Questions were not popular among the long riders. He did not know more than the names of half the men who sat around the smoky fire. They were eager to forget the past, and the only allusions to former times came in chance phrases which they let fall at rare intervals. When they told an anecdote they erased all names by instinct. They would begin: “I heard about a feller over to the Circle Y outfit that was once ridin’—” etc. As a rule they themselves were “that feller over to the Circle Y outfit.” Accordingly only a few grunts greeted Haines and yet he was far and away the most popular man in the group. Even solemn-eyed Jim Silent was partial to the handsome fellow.

  “Heard the whistling today?” he asked.

  Purvis shook his head and Terry Jordan allowed “as how it was most uncommon fortunate that this Barry feller didn’t start his noise.” After this Haines ate his supper in silence, his ear ready to catch the first sound of Kate’s horse as it crashed through the willows and shrubs. Nevertheless it was Shorty Rhinehart who sprang to his feet first.

  “They’s a hoss there comin’ among the willows!” he announced.

  “Maybe it’s Silent,” remarked Haines casually.

  “The chief don’t make no such a noise. He picks his goin’,” answered Hal Purvis.

  The sound was quite audible now.

  “They’s been some crooked work,” said Rhinehart excitedly. “Somebody’s tipped off the marshals about where we’re lyin’.”

  “All right,” said Haines quietly, “you and I will investigate.”

  They started through the willows. Rhinehart was cursing beneath his breath.

  “Don’t be too fast with your six-gun,” warned Haines.

  “I’d rather be too early than too late.”

  “Maybe it isn’t a marshal. If a man were looking for us he’
d be a fool to come smashing along like that.”

  He had scarcely spoken when Kate came into view.

  “A girl, by God!” said Rhinehart, with mingled relief and disgust.

  “Sure thing,” agreed Haines.

  “Let’s beat it back to the camp.”

  “Not a hope. She’s headed straight for the camp. We’ll take her in and tell her we’re a bunch from the Y Circle X outfit headed north. She’ll never know the difference.”

  “Good idea,” said Rhinehart, and he added with a chuckle, “it’s been nigh three months since I’ve talked to a piece of calico.”

  “Hey, there!” called Haines, and he stepped out with Rhinehart before her horse.

  “Oh!” cried Kate, reining up her horse sharply. “Who are you?”

  “A beaut!” muttered Rhinehart in devout admiration.

  “We’re from the Y Circle X outfit,” said Haines glibly, “camping over here for the night. Are you lost, lady?”

  “I guess I am. I thought I could get across the willows before the night fell. I’m trying to find a man who rode in this direction.”

  “Come on into the camp,” said Haines easily. “Maybe some of the boys can put you on his track. What sort of a looking fellow is he?”

  “Rides a black horse and whistles a good deal. His name is Barry. They call him Whistling Dan.”

  “By God!” whispered Rhinehart in the ear of Haines.

  “Shut up!” answered Haines in the same tone. “Are you afraid of a girl?”

  “I’ve trailed him south this far,” went on Kate, “and a few miles away from here I lost track of him. I think he may have gone on across the willows.”

  “Haven’t seen him,” said Rhinehart amiably. “But come on to the camp, lady. Maybe one of the boys has spotted him on the way. What’s your name?”