The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  “Dan,” he said, “do you know anything about Sheriff Gus Morris?”

  “No”

  “Then listen to this and salt every word away. I’m an officer of the law, but I won’t tell that to Morris. I hope he doesn’t know me. If he does it will spoil our game. I am almost certain he is playing a close hand with the lone riders. I’ll wager he’d rather see a stick of dynamite than a marshal. Remember when we get in that place that we’re not after Jim Silent or any one else. We’re simply travelling cowboys. No questions. I expect to learn something about the location of Silent’s gang while we’re here, but we’ll never find out except by hints and chance remarks. We have to watch Morris like hawks. If he suspects us he’ll find a way to let Silent know we’re here and then the hunters will be hunted.”

  In the house they found a dozen cattlemen sitting down at the table in the dining-room. As they entered the room the sheriff, who sat at the head of the table, waved his hand to them.

  “H’ware ye, boys?” he called. “You’ll find a couple of chairs right in the next room. Got two extra plates, Jac?”

  As Dan followed Tex after the chairs he noticed the sheriff beckon to one of the men who sat near him. As they returned with the chairs someone was leaving the room by another door.

  “Tex,” he said, as they sat down side by side, “when we left the dining-room for the chairs, the sheriff spoke to one of the boys and as we came back one of them was leavin’ through another door. D’you think Morris knew you when you came in?”

  Calder frowned thoughtfully and then shook his head.

  “No,” he said in a low voice. “I watched him like a hawk when we entered. He didn’t bat an eye when he saw me. If he recognized me he’s the greatest actor in the world, bar none! No, Dan, he doesn’t know us from Adam and Abel.”

  “All right,” said Dan, “but I don’t like somethin’ about this place—maybe it’s the smell of the air. Tex, take my advice an’ keep your gun ready for the fastest draw you ever made.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” smiled Calder. “How about yourself?”

  “Hello,” broke in Jacqueline from the end of the table. “Look who we’ve picked in the draw!”

  Her voice was musical, but her accent and manner were those of a girl who has lived all her life among men and has caught their ways—with an exaggeration of that self-confidence which a woman always feels among Western men. Her blue eyes were upon Dan.

  “Ain’t you a long ways from home?” she went on.

  The rest of the table, perceiving the drift of her badgering, broke into a rumbling bass chuckle.

  “Quite a ways,” said Dan, and his wide brown eyes looked seriously back at her.

  A yell of delight came from the men at this naive rejoinder. Dan looked about him with a sort of childish wonder. Calder’s anxious whisper came at his side: “Don’t let them get you mad, Dan!” Jacqueline, having scored so heavily with her first shot, was by no means willing to give up her sport.

  “With them big eyes, for a starter,” she said, “all you need is long hair to be perfect. Do your folks generally let you run around like this?”

  Every man canted his ear to get the answer and already they were grinning expectantly.

  “I don’t go out much,” returned the soft voice of Dan, “an’ when I do, I go with my friend, here. He takes care of me.”

  Another thunder of laughter broke out. Jacqueline had apparently uncovered a tenderfoot, and a rare one even for that absurd species. A sandy-haired cattle puncher who sat close to Jacqueline now took the cue from the mistress of the house.

  “Ain’t you a bit scared when you get around among real men?” he asked, leering up the table towards Dan.

  The latter smiled gently upon him.

  “I reckon maybe I am,” he said amiably.

  “Then you must be shakin’ in your boots right now,” said the other over the sound of the laughter.

  “No, said Dan,” “I feel sort of comfortable.”

  The other replied with a frown that would have intimidated a balky horse.

  “What d’you mean? Ain’t you jest said men made you sort of—nervous?”

  He imitated the soft drawl of Dan with his last words and raised another yell of delight from the crowd. Whistling Dan turned his gentle eyes upon Jacqueline.

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” he began.

  An instant hush fell on the men. They would not miss one syllable of the delightful remarks of this rarest of all tenderfoots, and the prelude of this coming utterance promised something that would eclipse all that had gone before.

  “Talk right out, Brown-eyes,” said Jacqueline, wiping the tears of delight from her eyes. “Talk right out as if you was a man. I won’t hurt you.”

  “I jest wanted to ask,” said Dan, “if these are real men?”

  The ready laughter started, checked, and died suddenly away. The cattlemen looked at each other in puzzled surprise.

  “Don’t they look like it to you, honey?” asked Jacqueline curiously.

  Dan allowed his eyes to pass lingeringly around the table from face to face.

  “I dunno,” he said at last, “they look sort of queer to me.”

  “For God’s sake cut this short, Dan,” pleaded Tex Calder in an undertone. “Let them have all the rope they want. Don’t trip up our party before we get started.”

  “Queer?” echoed Jacqueline, and there was a deep murmur from the men.

  “Sure,” said Dan, smiling upon her again, “they all wear their guns so awful high.”

  Out of the dead silence broke the roar of the sandy-haired man: “What’n hell d’you mean by that?”

  Dan leaned forward on one elbow, his right hand free and resting on the edge of the table, but still his smile was almost a caress.

  “Why,” he said, “maybe you c’n explain it to me. Seems to me that all these guns is wore so high they’s more for ornament than use.”

  “You damned pup—” began Sandy.

  He stopped short and stared with a peculiar fascination at Dan, who started to speak again. His voice had changed—not greatly, for its pitch was the same and the drawl was the same—but there was a purr in it that made every man stiffen in his chair and make sure that his right hand was free. The ghost of his former smile was still on his lips, but it was his eyes that seemed to fascinate Sandy.

  “Maybe I’m wrong, partner,” he was saying, “an’ maybe you c’n prove that your gun ain’t jest ornamental hardware?”

  What followed was very strange. Sandy was a brave man and everyone at that table knew it. They waited for the inevitable to happen. They waited for Sandy’s lightning move for his gun. They waited for the flash and the crack of the revolver. It did not come. There followed a still more stunning wonder.

  “You c’n see,” went on that caressing voice of Dan, “that everyone is waitin’ for you to demonstrate—which the lady is most special interested.”

  And still Sandy did not move that significant right hand. It remained fixed in air a few inches above the table, the fingers stiffly spread. He moistened his white lips. Then—most strange of all!—his eyes shifted and wandered away from the face of Whistling Dan. The others exchanged incredulous glances. The impossible had happened—Sandy had taken water! The sheriff was the first to recover, though his forehead was shining with perspiration.

  “What’s all this stuff about?” he called. “Hey, Sandy, quit pickin’ trouble with the stranger!”

  Sandy seized the loophole through which to escape with his honour. He settled back in his chair.

  “All right, gov’nor,” he said, “I won’t go spoilin’ your furniture. I won’t hurt him.”

  CHAPTER XX

  ONE TRAIL ENDS

  But this deceived no one. They had seen him palpably take water. A moment of silence followed, while Sandy stared whitefaced down at the table, avoiding all eyes; but all the elements of good breeding exist under all the roughness of the West. It was Jacqueline who began with
a joke which was rather old, but everyone appreciated it—at that moment—and the laughter lasted long enough to restore some of the colour to Sandy’s face. A general rapid fire of talk followed.

  “How did you do it?” queried Calder. “I was all prepared for a gun-play.”

  “Why, you seen I didn’t do nothin’.”

  “Then what in the world made Sandy freeze while his hand was on the way to his gun?”

  “I dunno,” sighed Dan, “but when I see his hand start movin’ I sort of wanted his blood—I wanted him to keep right on till he got hold of his gun—and maybe he seen it in my eyes an’ that sort of changed his mind.”

  “I haven’t the least doubt that it did,” said Calder grimly.

  At the foot of the table Jacqueline’s right-hand neighbour was saying: “What happened, Jac?”

  “Don’t ask me,” she replied. “All I know is that I don’t think any less of Sandy because he backed down. I saw that stranger’s face myself an’ I’m still sort of weak inside.”

  “How did he look?”

  “I dunno. Jest—jest hungry. Understand?”

  She was silent for a time, but she was evidently thinking hard. At last she turned to the same man.

  “Did you hear Brown-eyes say that the broad-shouldered feller next to him was his friend?”

  “Sure. I seen them ride in together. That other one looks like a hard nut, eh?”

  She returned no answer, but after a time her eyes raised slowly and rested for a long moment on Dan’s face. It was towards the end of the meal when she rose and went towards the kitchen. At the door she turned, and Dan, though he was looking down at his plate, was conscious that someone was observing him. He glanced up and the moment his eyes met hers she made a significant backward gesture with her hand. He hesitated a moment and then shoved back his chair. Calder was busy talking to a table mate, so he walked out of the house without speaking to his companion. He went to the rear of the house and as he had expected she was waiting for him.

  “Brown-eyes,” she said swiftly, “that feller who sat beside you—is he your partner?”

  “I dunno,” said Dan evasively, “why are you askin’?”

  Her breath was coming audibly as if from excitement.

  “Have you got a fast hoss?”

  “There ain’t no faster.”

  “Believe me, he can’t go none too fast with you tonight. Maybe they’re after you, too.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you. Listen to me, Brown-eyes. Go get your hoss an’ feed him the spur till you’re a hundred miles away, an’ even then don’t stop runnin’.”

  He merely stared at her curiously.

  She stamped.

  “Don’t stop to talk. If they’re after him and you’re his partner, they probably want you, too.”

  “I’ll stay aroun’. If they’re curious about me, I’ll tell ’em my name—I’ll even spell it for ’em. Who are they?”

  “They are—hell—that’s all.”

  “I’d like to see ’em. Maybe they’re real men.”

  “They’re devils. If I told you their names you’d turn stiff.”

  “I’ll take one chance. Tell me who they are.”

  “I don’t dare tell you.”

  She hesitated.

  “I will tell you! You’ve made a fool out of me with them big baby eyes. Jim Silent is in that house!”

  He turned and ran, but not for the horse-shed; he headed straight for the open door of the house.

  * * * *

  In the dining-room two more had left the table, but the rest, lingering over their fresh filled coffee cups, sat around telling tales, and Tex Calder was among them. He was about to push back his chair when the hum of talk ceased as if at a command. The men on the opposite side of the table were staring with fascinated eyes at the door, and then a big voice boomed behind him: “Tex Calder, stan’ up. You’ve come to the end of the trail!”

  He whirled as he rose, kicking down the chair behind him, and stood face to face with Jim Silent. The great outlaw was scowling; but his gun was in its holster and his hands rested lightly on his hips. It was plain for all eyes to see that he had come not to murder but to fight a fair duel. Behind him loomed the figure of Lee Haines scarcely less imposing.

  All eternity seemed poised and waiting for the second when one of the men would make the move for his gun. Not a breath was drawn in the room. Hands remained frozen in air in the midst of a gesture. Lips which had parted to speak did not close. The steady voice of the clock broke into the silence—a dying space between every tick. For the second time in his life Tex Calder knew fear.

  He saw no mere man before him, but his own destiny. And he knew that if he stood before those glaring eyes another minute he would become like poor Sandy a few minutes before—a white-faced, palsied coward. The shame of the thought gave him power.

  “Silent,” he said, “there’s a quick end to the longest trail, because—”

  His hand darted down. No eye could follow the lightning speed with which he whipped out his revolver and fanned it, but by a mortal fraction of a second the convulsive jerk of Silent’s hand was faster still. Two shots followed—they were rather like one drawn-out report. The woodwork splintered above the outlaw’s head; Tex Calder seemed to laugh, but his lips made no sound. He pitched forward on his face.

  “He fired that bullet,” said Silent, “after mine hit him.”

  Then he leaped back through the door.

  “Keep ’em back one minute, Lee, an’ then after me!” he said as he ran. Haines stood in the door with folded arms. He knew that no one would dare to move a hand.

  Two doors slammed at the same moment—the front door as Silent leaped into the safety of the night, and the rear door as Whistling Dan rushed into the house. He stood at the entrance from the kitchen to the dining-room half crouched, and swaying from the suddenness with which he had checked his run. He saw the sprawled form of Tex Calder on the floor and the erect figure of Lee Haines just opposite him.

  “For God’s sake!” screamed Gus Morris, “don’t shoot, Haines! He’s done nothin’. Let him go!”

  “My life—or his!” said Haines savagely. “He’s not a man—he’s a devil!”

  Dan was laughing low—a sound like a croon.

  “Tex,” he said, “I’m goin’ to take him alive for you!”

  As if in answer the dying man stirred on the floor. Haines went for his gun, a move almost as lightning swift as that of Jim Silent, but now far, far too late. The revolver was hardly clear of its holster when Whistling Dan’s weapon spoke. Haines, with a curse, clapped his left hand over his wounded right forearm, and then reached after his weapon as it clattered to the floor. Once more he was too late. Dan tossed his gun away with a snarl like the growl of a wolf; cleared the table at a leap, and was at Haines’s throat. The bandit fought back desperately, vainly. One instant they struggled erect, swaying, the next Haines was lifted bodily, and hurled to the floor. He writhed, but under those prisoning hands he was helpless.

  The sheriff headed the rush for the scene of the struggle, but Dan stopped them.

  “All you c’n do,” he said, “is to bring me a piece of rope.”

  Jacqueline came running with a stout piece of twine which he twisted around the wrists of Haines. Then he jerked the outlaw to his feet, and stood close, his face inhumanly pale.

  “If he dies,” he said, pointing with a stiff arm back at the prostrate figure of Tex Calder, “you—you’ll burn alive for it!”

  The sheriff and two of the other men turned the body of Calder on his back. They tore open his shirt, and Jacqueline leaned over him with a basin of water trying to wipe away the ever recurrent blood which trickled down his breast. Dan brushed them away and caught the head of his companion in his arms.

  “Tex!” he moaned, “Tex! Open your eyes, partner, I got him for you. I got him alive for you to look at him! Wake up!”

  As if in obedience to the summons the eyes of
Calder opened wide. The lids fluttered as if to clear his vision, but even then his gaze was filmed with a telltale shadow.

  “Dan—Whistling Dan,” he said, “I’m seeing you a long, long ways off. Partner, I’m done for.”

  The whole body of Dan stiffened.

  “Done? Tex, you can’t be! Five minutes ago you sat at that there table, smilin’ an’ talkin’!”

  “It doesn’t take five minutes. Half a second can take a man all the way to hell!”

  “If you’re goin’, pal, if you goin’, Tex, take one comfort along with you! I got the man who killed you! Come here!”

  He pulled the outlaw to his knees beside the dying marshal whose face had lighted wonderfully. He strained his eyes painfully to make out the face of his slayer. Then he turned his head.

  He said: “The man who killed me was Jim Silent.”

  Dan groaned and leaned close to Calder.

  “Then I’ll follow him to the end—” he began.

  The feeble accent of Calder interrupted him.

  “Not that way. Come close to me. I can’t hear my own voice, hardly.”

  Dan bowed his head. A whisper murmured on for a moment, broken here and there as Dan nodded his head and said, “Yes!”

  “Then hold up your hand, your right hand,” said Calder at last, audibly.

  Dan obeyed.

  “You swear it?”

  “So help me God!”

  “Then here’s the pledge of it!”

  Calder fumbled inside his shirt for a moment, and then withdrawing his hand placed it palm down in that of Dan. The breath of the marshal was coming in a rattling gasp.

  He said very faintly: “I’ve stopped the trails of twenty men. It took the greatest of them all to get me. He got me fair. He beat me to the draw!”

  He stopped as if in awe.