The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  Now another sound came, still soft, regular. There was a movement of the door. In the pitch dark a man could never have noticed it, but it was plainly visible to the wolf. Still more visible, when the door finally stood wide, was the form of the man who stood in the opening. In one hand he carried a lantern thoroughly hooded, but not so well wrapped that it kept back a single ray which flashed on a revolver. The intruder made a step forward, a step as light as the fall of feathers, but it was not half so stealthy as the movement of Black Bart as he slunk towards the door. He had been warned to watch that door, but it did not need a warning to tell him that a danger was approaching the sleeping master. In the crouched form of the man, in the cautious step, he recognized the unmistakable stalking of one who hunts. Another soft step the man made forward.

  Then, with appalling suddenness, a blacker shadow shot up from the deep night of the floor, and white teeth gleamed before the stranger’s face. He threw up his hand to save his throat. The teeth sank into his arm—a driving weight hurled him against the wall and then to the floor—the revolver and the lantern dropped clattering, and the latter, rolling from its wrapping, flooded the room with light. But neither man nor wolf uttered a sound.

  Calder was standing, gun in hand, but too bewildered to act, while Dan, as if he were playing a part long rehearsed, stood covering the fallen form of Buck Daniels.

  “Stand back from him, Bart!” he commanded.

  The wolf slipped off a pace, whining with horrible eagerness, for he had tasted blood. Far away a shout came from Sam Daniels. Dan lowered his gun.

  “Stand up,” he ordered.

  The big fellow picked himself up and stood against the wall with the blood streaming down his right arm. Still he said nothing and his keen eyes darted from Calder to Whistling Dan.

  “Give me a strip of that old shirt over there, will you, Tex?” said Dan, “an’ keep him covered while I tie up his arm.”

  Before Calder could move, old Daniels appeared at the door, a heavy Colt in his hand. For a moment he stood dumbfounded, but then, with a cry, jerked up his gun—a quick movement, but a fraction of a second too slow, for the hand of Dan darted out and his knuckles struck the wrist of the old cattleman. The Colt rattled on the floor. He lunged after his weapon, but the voice of Buck stopped him short.

  “The game’s up, Dad,” he growled, “that older feller is Tex Calder.”

  The name, like a blow in the face, straightened old Daniels and left him white and blinking. Whistling Dan turned his back on the father and deftly bound up the lacerated arm of Buck.

  “In the name o’ God, Buck,” moaned Sam, “what you been tryin’ to do in here?”

  “What you’d do if you had the guts for it. That’s Tex Calder an’ this is Dan Barry. They’re on the trail of big Jim. I wanted to put ’em off that trail.”

  “Look here,” said Calder, “how’d you know us?”

  “I’ve said my little say,” said Buck sullenly, “an’ you’ll get no more out of me between here an’ any hell you can take me to.”

  “He knew us when his father talked about Satan an’ Black Bart,” said Dan to Tex. “Maybe he’s one of Silent’s.”

  “Buck, for God’s sake tell ’em you know nothin’ of Silent,” cried old Daniels. “Boy, boy, it’s hangin’ for you if they get you to Elkhead an’ charge you with that!”

  “Dad, you’re a fool,” said Buck. “I ain’t goin’ down on my knees to ’em. Not me.”

  Calder, still keeping Buck covered with his gun, drew Dan a little to one side.

  “What can we do with this fellow, Dan?” he said. “Shall we give up the trail and take him over to Elkhead?”

  “An’ break the heart of the ol’ man?”

  “Buck is one of the gang, that’s certain.”

  “Get Silent an’ there won’t be no gang left.”

  “But we caught this chap in red blood—”

  “He ain’t very old, Tex. Maybe he could change. I think he ain’t been playin’ Silent’s game any too long.”

  “We can’t let him go. It isn’t in reason to do that.”

  “I ain’t thinkin’ of reason. I’m thinkin’ of old Sam an’ his wife.”

  “And if we turn him loose?”

  “He’ll be your man till he dies.”

  Calder scowled.

  “The whole range is filled with these silent partners of the outlaws—but maybe you’re right, Dan. Look at them now!”

  The father was standing close to his son and pouring out a torrent of appeal—evidently begging him in a low voice to disavow any knowledge of Silent and his crew, but Buck shook his head sullenly. He had given up hope. Calder approached them.

  “Buck,” he said, “I suppose you know that you could be hung for what you’ve tried to do tonight. If the law wouldn’t hang you a lynching party would. No jail would be strong enough to keep them away from you.”

  Buck was silent, dogged.

  “But suppose we were to let you go scot free?”

  Buck started. A great flush covered his face.

  “I’m taking the advice of Dan Barry in doing this,” said Calder. “Barry thinks you could go straight. Tell me man to man, if I give you the chance will you break loose from Silent and his gang?”

  A moment before, Buck had been steeled for the worst, but this sudden change loosened all the bonds of his pride. He stammered and choked. Calder turned abruptly away.

  “Dan,” he said, “here’s the dawn, and it’s time for us to hit the trail.”

  They rolled their blankets hastily and broke away from the gratitude which poured like water from the heart of old Sam. They were in their saddles when Buck came beside Dan. His pride, his shame, and his gratitude broke his voice.

  “I ain’t much on words,” he said, “but it’s you I’m thankin’!”

  His hand reached up hesitatingly, and Dan caught it in a firm grip.

  “Why,” he said gently, “even Satan here stumbles now an’ then, but that ain’t no reason I should get rid of him. Good luck—partner!”

  He shook the reins and the stallion leaped off after Calder’s trotting pony. Buck Daniels stood motionless looking after them, and his eyes were very dim.

  For an hour Dan and Tex were on the road before the sun looked over the hills. Calder halted his horse to watch.

  “Dan,” he said at last, “I used to think there were only two ways of handling men—one with the velvet touch and one with the touch of steel. Mine has been the way of steel, but I begin to see there’s a third possibility—the touch of the panther’s paw—the velvet with the steel claws hid beneath. That’s your way, and I wonder if it isn’t the best. I think Buck Daniels would be glad to die for you!”

  He turned directly to Dan.

  “But all this is aside from the point, which is that the whole country is full of these silent partners of the outlaws. The law plays a lone hand in the mountain-desert.”

  “You’ve played the lone hand and won twenty times,” said Dan.

  “Ay, but the twenty-first time I may fail. The difference between success and failure in this country is just the length of time it takes to pull a trigger—and Silent is fast with a gun. He’s the root of the outlaw power. We may kill a hundred men, but till he’s gone we’ve only mowed the weeds, not pulled them. But what’s the use of talking? One second will tell the tale when I stand face to face with Jim Silent and we go for our six-guns. And somewhere between that rising sun and those mountains I’ll find Jim Silent and the end of things for one of us.”

  He started his cattle-pony into a sudden gallop, and they drove on into the bright morning.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CAIN

  Hardly a score of miles away, Jim Silent and his six companions topped a hill. He raised his hand and the others drew rein beside him. Kate Cumberland shifted her weight a little to one side of the saddle to rest and looked down from the crest on the sweep of country below. A mile away the railroad made a streak of silver light acros
s the brown range and directly before them stood the squat station-house with red-tiled roof. Just before the house, a slightly broader streak of that gleaming light showed the position of the siding rails. She turned her head towards the outlaws. They were listening to the final directions of their chief, and the darkly intent faces told their own story. She knew, from what she had gathered of their casual hints, that this was to be the scene of the train hold-up.

  It seemed impossible that this little group of men could hold the great fabric of a train with all its scores of passengers at their mercy. In spite of herself, half her heart wished them success. There was Terry Jordan forgetful of the wound in his arm; Shorty Rhinehart, his saturnine face longer and more calamitous than ever; Hal Purvis, grinning and nodding his head; Bill Kilduff with his heavy jaw set like a bull dog’s; Lee Haines, with a lock of tawny hair blowing over his forehead, smiling faintly as he listened to Silent as if he heard a girl tell a story of love; and finally Jim Silent himself, huge, solemn, confident. She began to feel that these six men were worth six hundred.

  She hated them for some reasons; she feared them for others; but the brave blood of Joe Cumberland was thick in her and she loved the danger of the coming moment. Their plans were finally agreed upon, their masks arranged, and after Haines had tied a similar visor over Kate’s face, they started down the hill at a swinging gallop.

  In front of the house of the station-agent they drew up, and while the others were at their horses, Lee Haines dismounted and rapped loudly at the door. It was opened by a grey-bearded man smoking a pipe. Haines covered him. He tossed up his hands and the pipe dropped from his mouth.

  “Who’s in the house here with you?” asked Haines.

  “Not a soul!” stammered the man. “If you’re lookin’ for money you c’n run through the house. You won’t find a thing worth takin’.”

  “I don’t want money. I want you,” said Haines; and immediately explained, “you’re perfectly safe. All you have to do is to be obliging. As for the money, you just throw open that switch and flag the train when she rolls along in a few moments. We’ll take care of the rest. You don’t have to keep your hands up.”

  The hands came down slowly. For a brief instant the agent surveyed Haines and the group of masked men who sat their horses a few paces away, and then without a word he picked up his flag from behind the door and walked out of the house. Throughout the affair he never uttered a syllable. Haines walked up to the head of the siding with him while he opened the switch and accompanied him back to the point opposite the station-house to see that he gave the “stop” signal correctly. In the meantime two of the other outlaws entered the little station, bound the telegrapher hand and foot, and shattered his instrument. That would prevent the sending of any call for help after the hold-up. Purvis and Jordan (since Terry could shoot with his left hand in case of need) went to the other side of the track and lay down against the grade. It was their business to open fire on the tops of the windows as the train drew to a stop. That would keep the passengers inside. The other four were distributed along the side nearest to the station-house. Shorty Rhinehart and Bill Kilduff were to see that no passengers broke out from the train and attempted a flank attack. Haines would attend to having the fire box of the engine flooded. For the cracking of the safe, Silent carried the stick of dynamite.

  Now the long wait began. There is a dreamlike quality about bright mornings in the open country, and everything seemed unreal to Kate. It was impossible that tragedy should come on such a day. The moments stole on. She saw Silent glance twice at his watch and scowl. Evidently the train was late and possibly they would give up the attempt. Then a light humming caught her ear.

  She held her breath and listened again. It was unmistakable—a slight thing—a tremor to be felt rather than heard. She saw Haines peering under shaded eyes far down the track, and following the direction of his gaze she saw a tiny spot of haze on the horizon. The tiny puff of smoke developed to a deeper, louder note. The station-agent took his place on the track.

  Now the train bulked big, the engine wavering slightly to the unevenness of the road bed. The flag of the station-agent moved. Kate closed her eyes and set her teeth. There was a rumbling and puffing and a mighty grinding—a shout somewhere—the rattle of a score of pistol shots—she opened her eyes to see the train rolling to a stop on the siding directly before her.

  Kilduff and Shorty Rhinehart, crouching against the grade, were splintering the windows one by one with nicely placed shots. The baggage-cars were farther up the siding than Silent calculated. He and Haines now ran towards the head of the train.

  The fireman and engineer jumped from their cab, holding their arms stiffly above their heads; and Haines approached with poised revolver to make them flood the fire box. In this way the train would be delayed for some time and before it could send out the alarm the bandits would be far from pursuit. Haines had already reached the locomotive and Silent was running towards the first baggage-car when the door of that car slid open and at the entrance appeared two men with rifles at their shoulders. As they opened fire Silent pitched to the ground. Kate set her teeth and forced her eyes to stay open.

  Even as the outlaw fell his revolver spoke and one of the men threw up his hands with a yell and pitched out of the open door. His companion still kept his post, pumping shots at the prone figure. Twice more the muzzle of Silent’s gun jerked up and the second man crumpled on the floor of the car.

  A great hissing and a jetting cloud of steam announced that Haines had succeeded in flooding the fire box. Silent climbed into the first baggage-car, stepping, as he did so, on the limp body of the Wells Fargo agent, who lay on the road bed. A moment later he flung out the body of the second messenger. The man flopped on the ground heavily, face downwards, and then—greatest horror of all!—dragged himself to his hands and knees and began to crawl laboriously. Kate ran and dropped to her knees beside him.

  “Are you hurt badly?” she pleaded. “Where? Where?”

  He sagged to the ground and lay on his left side, breathing heavily.

  “Where is the wound?” she repeated.

  He attempted to speak, but only a bloody froth came to his lips. That was sufficient to tell her that he had been shot through the lungs.

  She tore open his shirt and found two purple spots high on the chest, one to the right, and one to the left. From that on the left ran a tiny trickle of blood, but that on the right was only a small puncture in the midst of a bruise. He was far past all help.

  “Speak to me!” she pleaded.

  His eyes rolled and then checked on her face.

  “Done for,” he said in a horrible whisper, “that devil done me. Kid—cut out—this life. I’ve played this game—myself—an’ now—I’m goin’—to hell for it!”

  A great convulsion twisted his face.

  “What can I do?” cried Kate.

  “Tell the world—I died—game!”

  His body writhed, and in the last agony his hand closed hard over hers. It was like a silent farewell, that strong clasp.

  A great hand caught her by the shoulder and jerked her to her feet.

  “The charge is goin’ off! Jump for it!” shouted Silent in her ear.

  She sprang up and at the same time there was a great boom from within the car. The side bulged out—a section of the top lifted and fell back with a crash—and Silent ran back into the smoke. Haines, Purvis, and Kilduff were instantly at the car, taking the ponderous little canvas sacks of coin as their chief handed them out.

  Within two minutes after the explosion ten small sacks were deposited in the saddlebags on the horses which stood before the station-house. Silent’s whistle called in Terry Jordan and Shorty Rhinehart—a sharp order forced Kate to climb into her saddle—and the train robbers struck up the hillside at a racing pace. A confused shouting rose behind them. Rifles commenced to crack where some of the passengers had taken up the weapons of the dead guards, but the bullets flew wide, and the little t
roop was soon safely out of range.

  On the other side of the hill-top they changed their course to the right. For half an hour the killing pace continued, and then, as there was not a sign of immediate chase, the lone riders drew down to a soberer pace. Silent called: “Keep bunched behind me. We’re headed for the old Salton place—an’ a long rest.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  REAL MEN

  Some people pointed out that Sheriff Gus Morris had never made a single important arrest in the ten years during which he had held office, and there were a few slanderers who spoke insinuatingly of the manner in which the lone riders flourished in Morris’s domain. These “knockers,” however, were voted down by the vast majority, who swore that the sheriff was the finest fellow who ever threw leg over saddle. They liked him for his inexhaustible good-nature, the mellow baritone in which he sang the range songs at any one’s request, and perhaps more than all, for the very laxness with which he conducted his work. They had had enough of the old school of sheriffs who lived a few months gun in hand and died fighting from the saddle. The office had never seemed desirable until Gus Morris ran for it and smiled his way to a triumphant election.

  Before his career as an office-holder began, he ran a combined general merchandise store, saloon, and hotel. That is to say, he ran the hostelry in name. The real executive head, general manager, clerk, bookkeeper, and cook, and sometimes even bartender was his daughter, Jacqueline. She found the place only a saloon, and a poorly patronized one at that. Her unaided energy gradually made it into a hotel, restaurant, and store. Even while her father was in office he spent most of his time around the hotel; but no matter how important he might be elsewhere, in his own house he had no voice. There the only law was the will of Jacqueline.

  Out of the stable behind this hostelry Dan and Tex Calder walked on the evening of the train robbery. They had reached the place of the hold-up a full two hours after Silent’s crew departed; and the fireman and engineer had been working frantically during the interim to clean out the soaked fire box and get up steam again. Tex looked at the two dead bodies, spoke to the conductor, and then cut short the voluble explanations of a score of passengers by turning his horse and riding away, followed by Dan. All that day he was gloomily silent. It was a shrewd blow at his reputation, for the outlaws had actually carried out the robbery while he was on their trail. Not till they came out of the horse-shed after stabling their horses did he speak freely.