The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  “But,” said Charles Merchant, “there’s one thing I can do. I can set you free to run down this Lanning.”

  “How?”

  “You’re needed on your ranch, Hal; but I want you to let me stand the expenses of this trip. Take your time, make sure of him, and run him into the ground.”

  “My friend,” said Hal Dozier, “you turn a pleasure into a real party.”

  And Charles Merchant left, knowing that he had signed the death warrant of young Lanning. In all the history of the mountain desert there was a tale of only one man who had escaped, once Hal Dozier took his trail, and that man had blown out his own brains.

  CHAPTER 11

  Far away in the western sky Andy Lanning saw a black dot that moved in wide circles and came up across the heavens slowly, and he knew it was a buzzard that scented carrion and was coming up the wind toward that scent. He had seen them many a time before on their gruesome trails, and the picture which he carried was not a pleasant one.

  But now the picture that drifted through his mind was still more horrible. It was a human body lying face downward in the sand with the wind ruffling in the hair and the hat rolled a few paces off and the gun close to the outstretched hand. He knew from Uncle Jasper that no matter how far the trail led, or how many years it was ridden, the end of the outlaw was always the same—death and the body left to the buzzards. Or else, in some barroom, a footfall from behind and a bullet through the back.

  The flesh of Andy crawled. It was not possible for him to relax in vigilance for a moment, lest danger come upon him when he least expected it. Perhaps, in some open space like this. He went on until the sun was low in the west and all the sky was rimmed with color.

  Dusk had come over the hills in a rush, when he saw a house half lost in the shadows. It was a narrow-fronted, two-storied, unpainted, lonely place, without sign of a porch. Here, where there was no vestige of a town near, and where there was no telephone, the news of the deaths of Bill Dozier and Buck Heath could not have come. Andy accepted the house as a blessing and went straight toward it.

  But the days of carelessness were over for Andy, and he would never again approach a house without searching it like a human face. He studied this shack as he came closer. If there were people in the building they did not choose to show a light.

  Andy went around to the rear of the house, where there was a low shed beside the corral, half tumbled down; but in the corral were five or six fine horses—wild fellows with bright eyes and the long necks of speed. Andy looked upon them wistfully. Not one of them but was worth the price of three of the pinto; but as for money there was not twenty dollars in the pocket of Andy.

  Stripping the saddle from the pinto, he put it under the shed and left the mustang to feed and find water in the small pasture. Then he went with the bridle, that immemorial sign of one who seeks hospitality in the West, toward the house. He was met halfway by a tall, strong man of middle age or more. There was no hat on his head, which was covered with a shock of brown hair much younger than the face beneath it. He beheld Andy without enthusiasm.

  “You figure on layin’ over here for the night, stranger?” he asked.

  “That’s it,” said Andy.

  “I’ll tell you how it is,” said the big man in the tone of one who is willing to argue a point. “We ain’t got a very big house—you see it—and it’s pretty well filled right now. If you was to slope over the hills there, you’d find Gainorville inside of ten miles.”

  Andy explained that he was at the end of a hard ride. “Ten more miles would kill the pinto,” he said. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll have a bit of chow and then turn in out there in the shed. That won’t crowd you in your sleeping quarters, and it’ll be fine for me.”

  The big man opened his mouth to say something more, then turned on his heel.

  “I guess we can fix you up,” he said. “Come on along.”

  At another time Andy would have lost a hand rather than accept such churlish hospitality, but he was in no position to choose. The pain of hunger was like a voice speaking in him.

  It was a four-room house; the rooms on the ground floor were the kitchen, where Andy cooked his own supper of bacon and coffee and flapjacks, and the combination living room, dining room, and, from the bunk covered with blankets on one side, bedroom. Upstairs there must have been two more rooms of the same size.

  Seated about a little kitchen table in the front room, Andy found three men playing an interrupted game of blackjack, which was resumed when the big fellow took his place before his hand. The three gave Andy a look and a grunt, but otherwise they paid no attention to him. And if they had consulted him he could have asked for no greater favor. Yet he had an odd hunger about seeing them. They were the last men in many a month, perhaps, whom he could permit to see him without a fear. He brought his supper into the living room and put his cup of coffee on the floor beside him. While he ate he watched them.

  They were, all in all, the least prepossessing group he had ever seen. The man who had brought him in was far from well favored, but he was handsome compared with the others. Opposite him sat a tall fellow very erect and stiff in his chair. A candle had recently been lighted, and it stood on the table near this man. It showed a wan face of excessive leanness. His eyes were deep under bony brows, and they alone of the features showed any expression as the game progressed, turning now and again to the other faces with glances that burned; he was winning steadily. A red-headed man was on his left, with his back to Andy; but now and again he turned, and Andy saw a heavy jowl and a skin blotched with great, rusty freckles. His shoulders over-flowed the back of his chair, which creaked whenever he moved. The man who faced the redhead was as light as his companion was ponderous. His voice was gentle, his eyes large and soft, and his profile was exceedingly handsome. But in the full view Andy saw nothing except a grisly, purple scar that twisted down beneath the right eye of the man. It drew down the lower lid of that eye, and it pulled the mouth of the man a bit awry, so that he seemed to be smiling in a smug, half-apologetic manner. In spite of his youth he was unquestionably the dominant spirit here. Once or twice the others lifted their voices in argument, and a single word from him cut them short. And when he raised his head, now and again, to look at Andy, it gave the latter a feeling that his secret was read and all his past known.

  These strange fellows had not asked his name, and neither had they introduced themselves, but from their table talk he gathered that the redhead was named Jeff, the funereal man with the bony face was Larry, the brown-haired one was Joe, and he of the scar and the smile was Henry. It occurred to Andy as odd that such rough boon companions had not shortened that name for convenience.

  They played with the most intense concentration. As the night deepened and the windows became black slabs Joe brought another candle and reenforced this light by hanging a lantern from a nail on the wall. This illuminated the entire room, but in a partial and dismal manner. The game went on. They were playing for high stakes; Andrew Lanning had never seen so much cash assembled at one time. They had stacks of unmistakable yellow gold before them—actually stacks. The winner was Larry. That skull-faced gentleman was fairly barricaded behind heaps of money. Andy estimated swiftly that there must be well over two thousand dollars in those stacks.

  He finished his supper, and, having taken the tin cup and plate out into the next room and cleaned them, he had no sooner come back to the door, on the verge of bidding them good night, then Henry invited him to sit down and take a hand.

  CHAPTER 12

  He had never studied any men as he was watching these men at cards. Andrew Lanning had spent most of his life quite indifferent to the people around him, but now it was necessary to make quick and sure judgments. He had to read unreadable faces. He had to guess motives. He had to sense the coming of danger before it showed its face. And, watching them with close intentness, he understood that at least three of them were cheating at every opportunity. Henry, alone, was playing a squar
e game; as for the heavy winner, Larry, Andrew had reason to believe that he was adroitly palming an ace now and then—luck ran too consistently his way. For his own part, he was no card expert, and he smiled as Henry made his offer.

  “I’ve got eleven dollars and fifty cents in my pocket,” Andrew said frankly. “I won’t sit in at that game.”

  “Then the game is three-handed,” said Henry as he got up from his chair. “I’ve fed you boys enough,” he continued in his soft voice. “I know a three-handed game is no good, but I’m through. Unless you’ll try a round or two with ’em, stranger? They’ve made enough money. Maybe they’ll play for silver for the fun of it, eh, boys?”

  There was no enthusiastic assent. The three looked gravely at a victim with eleven dollars and fifty cents, the chair of Big Jeff creaking noisily as he turned. “Sit in,” said Jeff. He made a brief gesture, like one wiping an obstacle out of the way. “Alright,” nodded Andy, for the thing began to excite him. He turned to Henry. “Suppose you deal for us?”

  The scar on Henry’s face changed color, and his habitual smile broadened. “Well!” exclaimed Larry. “Maybe the gent don’t like the way we been runnin’ this game in other ways. Maybe he’s got a few more suggestions to make, sittin’ in? I like to be obligin’.”

  He grinned, and the effect was ghastly.

  “Thanks,” said Andy. “That lets me out as far as suggestions go.” He paused with his hand on the back of the chair, and something told him that Larry would as soon run a knife into him as take a drink of water. The eyes burned up at him out of the shadow of the brows, but Andy, though his heart leaped, made himself meet the stare. Suddenly it wavered, and only then would Andy sit down. Henry had drawn up another chair.

  “That idea looks good to me,” he said. “I think I shall deal.” And forthwith, as one who may not be resisted, he swept up the cards and began to shuffle.

  The others at once lost interest. Each of them nonchalantly produced silver, and they began to play negligently, careless of their stakes.

  But to Andy, who had only played for money half a dozen times before, this was desperately earnest. He kept to a conservative game, and slowly but surely he saw his silver being converted into gold. Only Larry noticed his gains—the others were indifferent to it, but the skull-faced man tightened his lips as he saw. Suddenly he began betting in gold, ten dollars for each card he drew. The others were out of that hand. Andy, breathless, for he had an ace down, saw a three and a two fall—took the long chance, and, with the luck behind him, watched a five-spot flutter down to join his draw. Yet Larry, taking the same draw, was not busted. He had a pair of deuces and a four. There he stuck, and it stood to reason that he could not win. Yet he bet recklessly, raising Andy twice, until the latter had no more money on the table to call a higher bet. The showdown revealed an ace under cover for Larry also. Now he leaned across the table, smiling at Andrew.

  “I like the hand you show,” said Larry, “but I don’t like your face behind it, my friend.”

  His smile went out; his hand jerked back; and then the lean, small hand of Henry shot out and fastened on the tall man’s wrist. “You skunk!” said Henry. “D’you want to get the kid for that beggarly mess? Bah!”

  Andy, colorless, his blood cold, brushed aside the arm of the intercessor.

  “Partner,” he said, leaning a little forward in turn, and thereby making his holster swing clear of the seat of his chair, “partner, I don’t mind your words, but I don’t like the way you say ’em.”

  When he began to speak his voice was shaken; before he had finished, his tones rang, and he felt once more that overwhelming desire which was like the impulse to fling himself from a height. He had felt it before, when he watched the posse retreat with the body of Bill Dozier. He felt it now, a vast hunger, an almost blinding eagerness to see Larry make an incriminating move with his bony, hovering right hand. The bright eyes burned at him for a moment longer out of the shadow. Then, again, they wavered, and turned away.

  Andy knew that the fellow had no more stomach for a fight. Shame might have made him go through with the thing he started, however, had not Henry cut in again and given Larry a chance to withdraw gracefully.

  “The kid’s called your bluff, Larry,” he said. “And the rest of us don’t need to see you pull any target practice. Shake hands with the kid, will you, and tell him you were joking!”

  Larry settled back in his chair with a grunt, and Henry, without a word, tipped back in his chair and kicked the table. Andy, beside him, saw the move start, and he had just time to scoop his own winnings, including that last rich bet, off the table top and into his pocket. As for the rest of the coin, it slid with a noisy jangle to the floor, and it turned the other three men into scrambling madmen. They scratched and clawed at the money, cursing volubly, and Andy, stepping back out of the fracas, saw the scar-faced man watching with a smile of contempt. There was a snarl; Jeff had Joe by the throat, and Joe was reaching for his gun. Henry moved forward to interfere once more, but this time he was not needed. A clear whistling sounded outside the house, and a moment later the door was kicked open. A man came in with his saddle on his hip.

  His appearance converted the threatening fight into a scene of jovial good nature. The money was swept up at random, as though none of them had the slightest care what became of it.

  “Havin’ one of your little parties, eh?” said the stranger. “What started it?”

  “He did, Scottie,” answered Larry, and, stretching out an arm of enormous length, he pointed at Andrew.

  Again it required the intervention of Henry to explain matters, and Scottie, with his hands on his hips, turned and surveyed Andrew with considering eyes. He was much different from the rest. Whereas, they had one and all a peculiarly unhealthy effect upon Andy, this newcomer was a cheery fellow, with an eye as clear as crystal, and color in his tanned cheeks. He had one of those long faces which invariably imply shrewdness, and he canted his head to one side while he watched Andy. “You’re him that put the pinto in the corral, I guess?” he said.

  Andy nodded.

  There was no further mention of the troubles of that card game. Jeff and Joe and Larry were instantly busied about the kitchen and in arranging the table, while Scottie, after the manner of a guest, bustled about and accomplished little.

  But the eye of Andy, then and thereafter, whenever he was near the five, kept steadily upon the scar-faced man. Henry had tilted his chair back against the wall. The night had come on chill, with a rising wind that hummed through the cracks of the ill-built wall and tossed the flame in the throat of the chimney; Henry draped a coat like a cloak around his shoulders and buried his chin in his hands, separated from the others by a vast gulf. Presently Scottie was sitting at the table. The others were gathered around him in expectant attitudes.

  “What’s new?” they exclaimed in one voice.

  “Oh, about a million things. Let me get some of this ham into my face, and then I’ll talk. I’ve got a batch of newspapers yonder. There’s a gold rush on up to Tolliver’s Creek.”

  Andy blinked, for that news was at least four weeks old. But now came a tide of other news, and almost all of it was stale stuff to him. But the men drank it in—all except Henry, silent in his corner. He was relaxed, as if he slept. “But the most news is about the killing of Bill Dozier.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Ol’ Bill!” grunted red-headed Jeff. “Well, I’ll be hung! There’s one good deed done. He was overdue, anyways.”

  Andy, waiting breathlessly, watched lest the eye of the narrator should swing toward him for the least part of a second. But Scottie seemed utterly oblivious of the fact that he sat in the same room with the murderer. “Well, he got it,” said Scottie. “And he didn’t get it from behind. Seems there was a young gent in Martindale—all you boys know old Jasper Lanning?” There was an answering chorus. “Well, he’s got a nephew, Andrew Lanning. This kid was sort of a bashful kind, they say. But yesterday he up and bashed a f
ellow in the jaw, and the man went down. Whacked his head on a rock, and young Lanning thought his man was dead. So he holds off the crowd with a gun, hops a horse, and beats it.”

  “Pretty, pretty!” murmured Larry. “But what’s that got to do with that hyena, Bill Dozier?”

  “I don’t get it all hitched up straight. Most of the news come from Martindale to town by telephone. Seems this young Lanning was follered by Bill Dozier. He was always a hound for a job like that, eh?”

  There was a growl of assent.

  “He hand-picked five rough ones and went after Lanning. Chased him all night. Landed at John Merchant’s place. The kid had dropped in there to call on a girl. Can you beat that for cold nerve, him figuring that he’d killed a man, and Bill Dozier and five more on his trail to bring him back to wait and see whether the buck he dropped lived or died—and then to slide over and call on a lady? No, you can’t raise that!”

  But the tidings were gradually breaking in upon the mind of Andrew Lanning. Buck Heath had not been dead; the pursuit was simply to bring him back on some charge of assault; and now—Bill Dozier—the head of Andrew swam.

  “Seems he didn’t know her, either. Just paid a call round about dawn and then rode on. Bill comes along a little later on the trail, gets new horses from Merchant, and runs down Lanning early this morning. Runs him down, and then Lanning turns in the saddle and drills Bill through the head at five hundred yards.” Henry came to life. “How far?” he said.

  “That’s what they got over the telephone,” said Scottie apologetically.

  “Then the news got to Hal Dozier from Merchant’s house. Hal hops on the wire and gets in touch with the governor, and in about ten seconds they make this Lanning kid an outlaw and stick a price on his head—five thousand, I think, and they say Merchant is behind it. The telephone was buzzing with it when I left town, and most of the boys were oiling up their gats and getting ready to make a play. Pretty easy money, eh, for putting the rollers under a kid?”