The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  “I’m going over the hills to visit the Stockton girls,” she told her father. “Be gone a few days.”

  His mind was too filled with hope for the future to understand her. He nodded idly, and she was gone.

  She roped the toughest mustang of her “string” in the corral, and ten minutes later she was jogging down the trail. Halfway down a confused group of riders—some dozen in all—swarmed up out of the lower trail. Sheriff McGuire rode out on a sweating horse that told of fierce and long riding and stopped her.

  His salutation was brief; he plunged into the heart of his questions. Had she noticed anything unusual this morning? Which of the men had been absent from the house last night? Particularly, who went out with Black Jack’s kid?

  “Nobody left the house,” she said steadily. “Not a soul.”

  And she kept a blank eye on the sheriff while he bit his lip and studied her.

  “Kate,” he said at length, “I don’t blame you for not talking. I don’t suppose I would in your place. But your dad has about reached the end of the rope with us. If you got any influence, try to change him, because if he don’t do it by his own will, he’s going to be changed by force!”

  And he rode on up the trail, followed by the silent string of riders on their grunting, tired horses. She gave them only a careless glance. Joe Pollard had baffled officers of the law before, and he would do it again. That was not her great concern on this day.

  Down the trail she sent her mustang again, and broke him out into a stiff gallop on the level ground below. She headed straight through the town, and found a large group collected in and around the bank building. They turned and looked after her, but no one spoke a greeting. Plainly the sheriff’s suspicions were shared by others.

  She shook that shadow out of her head and devoted her entire attention to the trail which roughened and grew narrow on the other side of the town. Far away across the mountains lay her goal—the Cornish ranch.

  CHAPTER 37

  When she first glimpsed Bear Valley from the summits of the Blue Mountains, it seemed to her a small paradise. And as she rode lower and lower among the hills, the impression gathered strength. So she came out onto the road and trotted her cow-pony slowly under the beautiful branches of the silver spruce, and saw the bright tree shadows reflected in Bear Creek. Surely here was a place of infinite quiet, made for happiness. A peculiar ache and sense of emptiness entered her heart, and the ghost of Terry Hollis galloped soundlessly beside her on flaming El Sangre through the shadow. It seemed to her that she could understand him more easily. His had been a sheltered and pleasant life here, half dreamy; and when he wakened into a world of stern reality and stern men, he was still playing at a game like a boy—as Denver Pete had said.

  She came out into view of the house. And again she paused. It was like a palace to Kate, that great white facade and the Doric columns of the veranda. She had always thought that the house of her father was a big and stable house; compared with this, it was a shack, a lean-to, a veritable hovel. And the confidence which had been hers during the hard ride of two days across the mountains grew weaker. How could she talk to the woman who owned such an establishment as this? How could she even gain access to her?

  On a broad, level terrace below the house men were busy with plows and scrapers smoothing the ground; she circled around them, and brought her horse to a stop before the veranda. Two men sat on it, one white-haired, hawk-faced, spreading a broad blueprint before the other; and this man was middle-aged, with a sleek, young face. A very good-looking fellow, she thought.

  “Maybe you-all could tell me,” said Kate Pollard, lounging in the saddle, “where I’ll find the lady that owns this here place?”

  It seemed to her that the sleek-faced man flushed a little.

  “If you wish to talk to the owner,” he said crisply, and barely touching his hat to her, “I’ll do your business. What is it? Cattle lost over the Blue Mountains again? No strays have come down into the valley.”

  “I’m not here about cattle,” she answered curtly enough. “I’m here about a man.”

  “H’m,” said the other. “A man?” His attention quickened. “What man?”

  “Terry Hollis.”

  She could see him start. She could also see that he endeavored to conceal it. And she did not know whether she liked or disliked that quick start and flush. There was something either of guilt or of surprise remarkably strong in it. He rose from his chair, leaving the blueprint fluttering in the hands of his companion alone.

  “I am Vance Cornish,” he told her. She could feel his eyes prying at her as though he were trying to get at her more accurately. “What’s Hollis been up to now?”

  He turned and explained carelessly to his companion: “That’s the young scapegrace I told you about, Waters. Been raising Cain again, I suppose.” He faced the girl again.

  “A good deal of it,” she answered. “Yes, he’s been making quite a bit of trouble.”

  “I’m sorry for that, really,” said Vance. “But we are not responsible for him.”

  “I suppose you ain’t,” said Kate Pollard slowly. “But I’d like to talk to the lady of the house.”

  “Very sorry,” and again he looked in his sharp way—like a fox, she thought—and then glanced away as though there were no interest in her or her topic. “Very sorry, but my sister is in—er—critically declining health. I’m afraid she cannot see you.”

  This repulse made Kate thoughtful. She was not used to such bluff talk from men, however smooth or rough the exterior might be. And under the quiet of Vance she sensed an opposition like a stone wall.

  “I guess you ain’t a friend of Terry’s?”

  “I’d hardly like to put it strongly one way or the other. I know the boy, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It ain’t.” She considered him again. And again she was secretly pleased to see him stir under the cool probe of her eyes. “How long did you live with Terry?”

  “He was with us twenty-four years.” He turned and explained casually to Waters. “He was taken in as a foundling, you know. Quite against my advice. And then, at the end of the twenty-four years, the bad blood of his father came out, and he showed himself in his true colors. Fearful waste of time to us all—of course, we had to turn him out.”

  “Of course,” nodded Waters sympathetically, and he looked wistfully down at his blueprint.

  “Twenty-four years you lived with Terry,” said the girl softly, “and you don’t like him, I see.”

  Instantly and forever he was damned in her eyes. Anyone who could live twenty-four years with Terry Hollis and not discover his fineness was beneath contempt.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said. “I’ve got to see Miss Elizabeth Cornish.”

  “H’m!” said Vance. “I’m afraid not. But—just what have you to tell her?”

  The girl smiled.

  “If I could tell you that, I wouldn’t have to see her.”

  He rubbed his chin with his knuckles, staring at the floor of the veranda, and now and then raising quick glances at her. Plainly he was suspicious. Plainly, also, he was tempted in some manner.

  “Something he’s done, eh? Some yarn about Terry?”

  It was quite plain that this man actually wanted her to have something unpleasant to say about Terry. Instantly she suited herself to his mood; for he was the door through which she must pass to see Elizabeth Cornish.

  “Bad?” she said, hardening her expression as much as possible. “Well, bad enough. A killing to begin with.”

  There was a gleam in his eyes—a gleam of positive joy, she was sure, though he banished it at once and shook his head in deprecation.

  “Well, well! As bad as that? I suppose you may see my sister. For a moment. Just a moment. She is not well. I wish I could understand your purpose!”

  The last was more to himself than to her. But she was already off her horse. The man with the blueprint glared at her, and she passed across the veranda and into the
house, where Vance showed her up the big stairs. At the door of his sister’s room he paused again and scrutinized.

  “A killing—by Jove!” he murmured to himself, and then knocked.

  A dull voice called from within, and he opened. Kate found herself in a big, solemn room, in one corner of which sat an old woman wrapped to the chin in a shawl. The face was thin and bleak, and the eyes that looked at Kate were dull.

  “This girl—” said Vance. “By Jove, I haven’t asked your name, I’m afraid.”

  “Kate Pollard.”

  “Miss Pollard has some news of Terry. I thought it might—interest you, Elizabeth.”

  Kate saw the brief struggle on the face of the old woman. When it passed, her eyes were as dull as ever, but her voice had become husky.

  “I’m surprised, Vance. I thought you understood—his name is not to be spoken, if you please.”

  “Of course not. Yet I thought—never mind. If you’ll step downstairs with me, Miss Pollard, and tell me what—”

  “Not a step,” answered the girl firmly, and she had not moved her eyes from the face of the elder woman. “Not a step with you. What I have to say has got to be told to someone who loves Terry Hollis. I’ve found that someone. I stick here till I’ve done talking.”

  Vance Cornish gasped. But Elizabeth opened her eyes, and they brightened—but coldly, it seemed to Kate.

  “I think I understand,” said Elizabeth Cornish gravely. “He has entangled the interest of this poor girl—and sent her to plead for him. Is that so? If it’s money he wants, let her have what she asks for, Vance. But I can’t talk to her of the boy.”

  “Very well,” said Vance, without enthusiasm. He stepped before her. “Will you step this way, Miss Pollard?”

  “Not a step,” she repeated, and deliberately sat down in a chair. “You’d better leave,” she told Vance.

  He considered her in open anger. “If you’ve come to make a scene, I’ll have to let you know that on account of my sister I cannot endure it. Really—” “I’m going to stay here,” she echoed, “until I’ve done talking. I’ve found the right person. I know that. Tell you what I want? Why, you hate Terry Hollis!”

  “Hate—him?” murmured Elizabeth.

  “Nonsense!” cried Vance.

  “Look at his face, Miss Cornish,” said the girl.

  “Vance, by everything that’s sacred, your eyes were positively shrinking. Do you hate—him?”

  “My dear Elizabeth, if this unknown—”

  “You’d better leave,” interrupted the girl. “Miss Cornish is going to hear me talk.”

  Before he could answer, his sister said calmly: “I think I shall, Vance. I begin to be intrigued.”

  “In the first place,” he blurted angrily, “it’s something you shouldn’t hear—some talk about a murder—”

  Elizabeth sank back in her chair and closed her eyes.

  “Ah, coward!” cried Kate Pollard, now on her feet.

  “Vance, will you leave me for a moment?”

  For a moment he was white with malice, staring at the girl, then suddenly submitting to the inevitable, turned on his heel and left the room.

  “Now,” said Elizabeth, sitting erect again, “what is it? Why do you insist on talking to me of—him? And—what has he done?”

  In spite of her calm, a quiver of emotion was behind the last words, and nothing of it escaped Kate Pollard.

  “I knew,” she said gently, “that two people couldn’t live with Terry for twenty-four years and both hate him, as your brother does. I can tell you very quickly why I’m here, Miss Cornish.”

  “But first—what has he done?”

  Kate hesitated. Under the iron self-control of the older woman she saw the hungry heart, and it stirred her. Yet she was by no means sure of a triumph. She recognized the most formidable of all foes—pride. After all, she wanted to humble that pride. She felt that all the danger in which Terry Hollis now stood, both moral and physical, was indirectly the result of this woman’s attitude. And she struck her, deliberately cruelly.

  “He’s taken up with a gang of hard ones, Miss Cornish. That’s one thing.”

  The face of Elizabeth was like stone.

  “Professional—thieves, robbers!”

  And still Elizabeth refused to wince. She forced a cold, polite smile of attention.

  “He went into a town and killed the best fighter they had.”

  And even this blow did not tell.

  “And then he defied the sheriff, went back to the town, and broke into a bank and stole fifty thousand dollars.”

  The smile wavered and went out, but still the dull eyes of Elizabeth were steady enough. Though perhaps that dullness was from pain. And Kate, waiting eagerly, was chagrined to see that she had not broken through to any softness of emotion. One sign of grief and trembling was all she wanted before she made her appeal; but there was no weakness in Elizabeth Cornish, it seemed.

  “You see I am listening,” she said gravely and almost gently. “Although I am really not well. And I hardly see the point of this long recital of crimes. It was because I foresaw what he would become that I sent him away.”

  “Miss Cornish, why’d you take him in in the first place?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Elizabeth.

  “I’m a pretty good listener,” said Kate.

  Elizabeth Cornish looked away, as though she hesitated to touch on the subject, or as though it were too unimportant to be referred to at length.

  “In brief, I saw from a hotel window Black Jack, his father, shot down in the street; heard about the infant son he left, and adopted the child—on a bet with my brother. To see if blood would tell or if I could make him a fine man.”

  She paused.

  “My brother won the bet!”

  And her smile was a wonderful thing, so perfectly did it mask her pain.

  “And, of course, I sent Terry away. I have forgotten him, really. Just a bad experiment.”

  Kate Pollard flushed.

  “You’ll never forget him,” she said firmly. “You think of him every day!”

  The elder woman started and looked sharply at her visitor. Then she dismissed the idea with a shrug.

  “That’s absurd. Why should I think of him?”

  There is a spirit of prophecy in most women, old or young; and especially they have a way of looking through the flesh of their kind and seeing the heart. Kate Pollard came a little closer to her hostess.

  “You saw Black Jack die in the street,” she queried, “fighting for his life?”

  Elizabeth dreamed into the vague distance.

  “Riding down the street with his hair blowing—long black hair, you know,” she reminisced. “And holding the crowd back as one would hold back a crowd of curs. Then—he was shot from the side by a man in concealment. That was how he fell!”

  “I knew,” murmured the girl, nodding. “Miss Cornish, I know now why you took in Terry.”

  “Ah?”

  “Not because of a bet—but because you—you loved Black Jack Hollis!”

  It brought an indrawn gasp from Elizabeth. Rather of horror than surprise. But the girl went on steadily:

  “I know. You saw him with his hair blowing, fighting his way—he rode into your heart. I know, I tell you! Maybe you’ve never guessed it all these years. But has a single day gone when you haven’t thought of the picture?”

  The scornful, indignant denial died on the lips of Elizabeth Cornish. She stared at Kate as though she were seeing a ghost.

  “Not one day!” cried Kate. “And so you took in Terry, and you raised him and loved him—not for a bet, but because he was Black Jack’s son!”

  Elizabeth Cornish had grown paler than before. “I mustn’t listen to such talk,” she said.

  “Ah,” cried the girl, “don’t you see that I have a right to talk? Because I love him also, and I know that you love him, too.”

  Elizabeth Cornish came to her feet, and there was a faint flush in her
cheeks.

  “You love Terry? Ah, I see. And he has sent you!”

  “He’d die sooner than send me to you.”

  “And yet—you came?”

  “Don’t you see?” pleaded Kate. “He’s in a corner. He’s about to go—bad!”

  “Miss Pollard, how do you know these things?”

  “Because I’m the daughter of the leader of the gang!”

  She said it without shame, proudly.

  “I’ve tried to keep him from the life he intends leading,” said Kate. “I can’t turn him. He laughs at me. I’m nothing to him, you see? And he loves the new life. He loves the freedom. Besides, he thinks that there’s no hope. That he has to be what his father was before him. Do you know why he thinks that? Because you turned him out. You thought he would turn bad. And he respects you. He still turns to you. Ah, if you could hear him speak of you! He loves you still!”

  Elizabeth Cornish dropped back into her chair, grown suddenly weak, and Kate fell on her knees beside her.

  “Don’t you see,” she said softly, “that no strength can turn Terry back now? He’s done nothing wrong. He shot down the man who killed his father. He has killed another man who was a professional bully and mankiller. And he’s broken into a bank and taken money from a man who deserved to lose it—a wolf of a man everybody hates. He’s done nothing really wrong yet, but he will before long. Just because he’s stronger than other men. And he doesn’t know his strength. And he’s fine, Miss Cornish. Isn’t he always gentle and—”

  “Hush!” said Elizabeth Cornish.

  “He’s just a boy; you can’t bend him with strength, but you can win him with love.”

  “What,” gasped Elizabeth, “do you want me to do?”

  “Bring him back. Bring him back, Miss Cornish!”

  Elizabeth Cornish was trembling.

  “But I—if you can’t influence him, how can I? You with your beautiful— you are very beautiful, dear child. Ah, very lovely!”