by Max Brand
“And he done it?”
“He done it. But he never fired the gun.”
“What was the last time Quade seen you?”
“The day before yesterday. He come up here and told me that he knew me and John Gaspar was going to get married, and that he wouldn’t stand still and see the thing go through.”
“But what he said was right, wasn’t it? Gaspar had asked you to marry him?”
She dropped her head. “No.”
“What? You mean to say that Gaspar hadn’t told you he loved you?”
“Never! But now that John’s in this trouble, I don’t care if the whole world knows it! I love John Gaspar!”
What a voice! What a lighted face, as she turned to the prisoner. But, instead of a flush of happiness, John Gaspar rose and shrank away from the outstretched hands of the girl. And he was pale—pale with sorrow, and even with pity, it seemed to Sinclair.
“No, no,” said the soft voice of Gaspar. “Not that, Sally. Not that!”
Decidedly it would not do to let this scene progress. “Take away the witness, Montana.”
Montana drew her arm into his, and she went away as one stunned, staring at John Gaspar as if she could not yet understand the extent of the calamity which had befallen her. She had been worse than scorned. She had been rejected with pity!
As she disappeared into the door of her house, Sinclair looked at the bowed head of John Gaspar.
“Denver!” he called suddenly.
“Yes, your honor.”
“The prisoner’s hands are tied. Wipe the sweat off’n his face, will you?”
“Sure!”
With a large and brilliant bandanna Montana obeyed. Then he paused in the midst of his operation.
“Your honor.”
“Well?”
“It ain’t sweat. It’s tears!”
“Tears!” Riley Sinclair started up, then slumped back on his stump with a groan. “Tears!” he echoed, with a voice that was a groan. “John Gaspar, what kind of a man are you?”
He turned back to the court with a frown.
“Mr. Jury,” he said, “look at this prisoner we got. Look him over considerable. I say, did you ever see a man like that? A man that ain’t able to love a girl like Sally Bent when she just about throws herself at his head? Is he worth keeping alive? Look at him, and then listen to me. I see the whole of it, Mr. Jury.”
Buck Mason leaned forward with interest, glowering upon John Gaspar.
“This skunk of a John Gaspar gets Sally all tied up with his sappy talk. Gets her all excited because he’s something brand new and different. Quade gets sore, nacherallike. Then he comes to Gaspar and says: ‘Cut out this soft talk to Sally, or I’ll bust your head.’ Gaspar don’t love Sally, but he’s afraid of Quade. He goes and gets a gun. He goes to Quade’s house and tries to be friends. Quade kicks him out. Gaspar climbs back on his hoss and, while he’s sitting there, pulls out a gun and shoots poor Quade dead. Don’t that sound nacheral? He wouldn’t marry Sally, but he didn’t want another man to have her. And he wouldn’t give up his soft berth in the house of Sally’s brother. He knew Quade would never suspect him of having the nerve to fight. So he takes Quade unready and plugs him, while Quade ain’t looking. Is that clear?”
“It sure sounds straight to me,” said Buck Mason.
“All right! Stand up.”
Mason rose.
“Take off your hat.”
The sombrero was withdrawn with a flourish.
“God’s up yonder higher’n that hawk, but seeing you clear, Buck. Tell us straight. Is Gaspar guilty or not?”
“Guilty as hell, your honor!”
A sigh from the prisoner. The last of life seemed to go from him, and Sinclair braced himself to meet a hysterical appeal. But there was only that slight drooping of the shoulders and declining of the head.
It was an appalling thing for Sinclair to watch. He was used to power in men and beasts. He understood it. A cunning devil of a fighting outlaw horse was his choice for a ride. “The meaner they are, the longer they last,” he used to say. He respected men of evil as long as they were men of action. He was perfectly at home and contented among men, where one’s purse and life were at constant hazard, where a turned back might mean destruction.
To him this meek surrender of hope was incomprehensibly despicable. If he had hesitated before, his hard soul was firm now in the decision that John Gaspar must die, and so leave Sinclair’s own road free. With all suspicion of a connection between him and Quade’s death gone, Riley could play a free hand against Sandersen. He turned a face of iron upon the prisoner.
“Sandersen and Denver Jim, bring the prisoner before me.”
They obeyed. But when they reached down their hands to Gaspar’s shoulders to drag him to his feet, he avoided them with a shudder and of his own free will rose and walked between them.
“John Irving Gaspar,” said Sinclair sternly, “alias Jig, alias Cold Feet—which is a fitting and proper name for you—have you got anything to say that won’t take too long before I pronounce sentence on you?”
He had to set his teeth. The sad eyes of John Gaspar had risen from the ground and fixed steadily, darkly upon the eyes of his judge. There was infinite understanding, infinite patience in that look, the patience of the weak man, schooled in enduring buffets. For the moment Sinclair almost felt that the man was pitying him!
“I have only a little to say,” said John Gaspar.
“Speak up then. Who d’you want to give the messages to?”
“To no living man,” said John Gaspar.
“All right then, Gaspar. Blaze away with the talk, but make it short.”
John Gaspar raised his head until he was looking through the stalwart branches of the cottonwood tree, into the haze of light above.
“Our Father in Heaven,” said John Gaspar, “forgive them as I forgive them!”
Riley Sinclair, quivering under those words, looked around him upon the stunned faces of the rest of the court; then back to the calm of Gaspar. Strength seemed to have flooded the coward. At the moment when he lost all hope, he became glorious. His voice was soft, never rising, and the great, dark eyes were steadfast. A sudden consciousness came to Riley Sinclair that God must indeed be above them, higher than the flight of the hawk, robed in the maze of that lofty cloud, seeing all, hearing all. And every word that Gaspar spoke was damning him, dragging him to hell.
But Riley Sinclair was not a religious man. Luck was his divinity. He left God and heaven and hell inside the pages of the Bible, undisturbed. The music of the schoolteacher’s voice reminded him of the purling of some tiny waterfall in the midst of a mountain wilderness.
“I have no will to fight for life. For that sin, forgive me, and for whatever else I have done wrong. Let no knowledge of the crime they are committing come to these men. Fierce men, fighters, toilers, full of hate, full of despair, full of rage, how can they be other than blind? Forgive them, as I forgive them without malice. And most of all, Lord God, forgive this most unjust judge.”
“Louder!” whispered Sinclair, his hand cupped behind his ear.
“Amen,” said John Gaspar, as his head bowed again. The fascinated posse seemed frozen, each man in his place, each in his attitude.
“John Gaspar,” said his honor, “here’s your sentence: You’re to be hanged by the neck till you’re dead.”
John Gaspar closed his eyes and opened them again. Otherwise he made no move of protest.
“But not,” continued Sinclair, “from this cottonwood tree.”
A faint sigh, indubitably of relief, came from the posse.
Riley Sinclair arose. “Gents,” he said, “I been thinking this over. They ain’t any doubt that the prisoner is guilty, and they ain’t any doubt that John Gaspar is no good, anyway you look at him. But a gent that can put the words together like he can, ought to get a chance to talk in front of a regular jury. I figure we’d better send for the sheriff to come over from Woodville
and take the prisoner back there. One of you gents can slide over there today, and the sheriff’ll be here tomorrow, mostlike.”
“But who’ll take charge of Gaspar?”
“Who? Why me, of course! Unless somebody else would like the job more? I’ll keep him right here in the Bent cabin.”
“Sinclair,” protested Buck Mason, “you’re a pretty capable sort. They ain’t no doubt of that. But what if Jerry Bent comes home, which he’s sure to do before night? There’d be a mess, because Jerry’d fight for Gaspar, I know!”
“Partner,” said Riley Sinclair dryly, “if it come to that, then I guess I’d have to fight back.”
It was foolish to question the power in that grave, sardonic face. The other men gave way, nodding one by one. Secretly each man, now that the excitement was gone, was glad that they had not proceeded to the last extremity. In five minutes they were drifting away, and all this time Sinclair watched the face of John Gaspar, as the sorrow changed to wonder, and the wonder to the vague beginnings of happiness.
Suddenly he felt that he had the clue to the mystery of Cold Feet. As a matter of fact John Gaspar had never grown up. He was still a weak, dreamy boy.
CHAPTER 10
The posse had hardly thrown its masks to the wind and galloped down the road when Sally Bent came running from the house.
“I knew they couldn’t,” she cried to John Gaspar. “I knew they wouldn’t dare. The cowards! I’ll remember every one of them!”
“Hush!” murmured Gaspar. His faint smile was for Riley Sinclair. “One of them is still here, you see!”
With wrath flushing her face, the girl looked at Riley.
“How do you dare to stay here and face me—after the things you said!”
“Lady,” replied Sinclair, “you mean after the things I made you say.”
“Just wait till Jerry comes,” exclaimed Sally.
At this Sinclair grew more sober.
“Honey,” he said dryly, “when your brother drops in, you just calm him down, will you? Because if him and Gaspar together was to start in raising trouble—well, they’d be more action than you ever seen in that cabin before. And, after it was all over, they’d have a dead Gaspar to cart over to Woodville. You can lay to that!”
It took Sally somewhat aback, this confident ferociousness.
“Them that brag ain’t always the ones that do things,” she declared. “But why are you staying here?”
“To keep Gaspar till the sheriff comes for him.”
Sally grew white.
“Don’t you see that there’s nothing to be afraid of?” asked John Gaspar. “See how close I came to death, and yet I was saved. Why, God doesn’t let innocent men be killed, Sally.”
For a moment the girl stared at the schoolteacher with tears in her eyes; then she flashed at Riley a glance of utter scorn, as if inviting him to see what an angel upon the earth he was persecuting. But Sinclair remained unmoved.
He informed them of the conditions of his stay. He must be allowed to keep John Gaspar in sight at all times. Only suspicious moves he would resent with violence. Sally Bent heard all of this with openly expressed hatred and contempt. John Gaspar showed no emotion whatever.
“By heaven,” declared Sinclair, when the girl had gone about some housework, “I’d actually think you believed that God was on your side. You talk about Him so familiar—like you and Him was partners.”
John Gaspar smiled one of his rare smiles. He had a way of looking for a long moment at another before he spoke. All that he was about to say was first registered in his face. It was easy to understand how Sally Bent had been entrapped by the classic regularity of those features and the strange manner of the schoolteacher. She lived in a country where masculine men were a drug on the market. John Gaspar was the pleasant exception.
“You see,” explained Gaspar, “I had to cheer Sally by saying something like that. Women like to have such things said. She’ll be absolutely confident now, because she thinks I’m not disturbed. Very odd, but very true.”
“And it seems to me,” said Sinclair, frowning, “that you’re not much disturbed, Gaspar. How does that come?”
“What can I do?”
“Maybe you’d be man enough to try to break away.”
“From you? Tush! I know it is impossible. I’d as soon try to hide myself in an open field from that hawk. No, no! I’ll give you my parole, my word of honor that I’ll make no escape.”
But Sinclair struck in with: “I don’t want your parole. Hang it, man, just do your best, and I’ll do mine. You try to give me the slip, and I’ll try to keep you from it. That’s square all around.”
Gaspar observed him with what seemed to be a characteristic air of judicious reserve, very much as if he suspected a trap. A great many words came up into the throat of Riley Sinclair, but he refrained from speech.
In a way he was beginning to detest John Gaspar as he had never detested any human being before or since. To him no sin was so great as the sin of weakness in a man, and certainly Gaspar was superlatively weak. He had something in place of courage, but just what that thing was, Sinclair could not tell.
Curiosity drew him toward the fellow; and these weaknesses repulsed him. No wonder that he stared at him now in a quandary. One certainty was growing upon him. He wished Gaspar to escape. It would bring him shame in Sour Creek, but for the opinion of these men he had not the slightest respect. Let them think as they pleased.
It came home to Riley that this was a man whose like he had never known before, and whom he must not, therefore, judge as if he knew him. He softened his voice. “Gaspar,” he said, “keep your head up. Make up your mind that you’ll fight to the last gasp. Why, it makes me plumb sick to see a grown man give up like you do!”
His scorn rang in his voice, and Gaspar looked at him in wonder.
“You’d ought to be packing yourself full of courage,” went on Sinclair. “Here’s your pal, Jerry Bent, coming back. Two agin’ one, you’ll be. Ain’t that a chance, I ask you?”
But Gaspar shook his head. He seemed even a little amused.
“Not against a man like you, Sinclair. You love fighting, you see. You’re made for fighting. You make me think of that hawk. All beak and talons, made to tear, remorseless, crafty.”
“That’s overrating me a pile,” muttered Riley, greatly pleased by this tribute, as he felt it to be. “If you tried, maybe you could do a lot yourself. You’re full of nerves, and a gent that’s full of nerves makes a first-class fighting man, once he finds out what he can do. With them fingers of yours you could learn to handle a gun like a flash. Start in and learn to be a man, Gaspar!”
Sinclair stretched a friendly hand toward the shoulder of the smaller man. The hand passed through thin air. Gaspar had slipped away. He stood at a greater distance. On his face there was a strong expression of displeasure.
Sinclair scowled darkly. “Now what d’you mean by that?”
“I mean that I don’t envy you,” said Gaspar steadily. “I’d rather have the other thing.”
“What other thing, Jig?”
Gaspar overlooked the contemptuous nickname, doubly contemptuous on the lips of a stranger.
“You go into the world and take what you want. I’m stronger than that.”
“How are you stronger?” asked Riley.
“Because I sit in my room, and I can make the world come to me.”
“Jig, I was never smart at riddles. Go ahead and clear yourself up with a few more words.”
The other hesitated—not for words, but as if he wondered if it might be worth while for him to explain. Never in Riley Sinclair’s life had he been taken so lightly.
“Will you follow me into the house?” asked Gaspar at length.
“I’ll follow you, right enough,” said Sinclair. “That’s my job. Lead on.”
He was brought through the living room of the cabin and into a smaller room to the side.
Comfort seemed to fill this smaller room. B
ookcases ranged along one wall were packed with books. The couch before the window was heaped with cushions. There was an easy chair with an adjustable back, so that one could either sit or lie in it. There was a lamp with a big greenish-yellow shade.
“This is what I mean,” murmured Jig.
Riley Sinclair’s bold eye roved swiftly, contemptuously. “Well, you got this place fixed up pretty stuffy,” he answered. “Outside of that, hang me if I see what you mean.”
Cold Feet slipped into a chair and, interlacing those fingers whose delicacy baffled and disturbed Sinclair, stared over them at his companion.
“I really shouldn’t expect you to understand, my friend.”
“Friend!” Sinclair exploded. “You’re a queer bird, Jig. What do you mean by ‘friend’?”
“Why not?” asked this amazing youth, and the quiet of his face brightened into a smile. “I’d be swinging from the end of a rope if it weren’t for you, you know.”
Sinclair shrugged away this rejoinder. He trod heavily to the bookshelves, took up two or three random volumes, and tossed them heedlessly back into place.
“Well, kid, you’re going to be yanked out of this little imitation world of yours pretty pronto.”
“Ah, but perhaps not!”
“Eh?”
“Something may happen.”
“What can happen?”
“Just something like you, my friend.”
The insistence on that word irritated Riley Sandersen.
“Don’t call me that,” he replied in his most brutal manner. “Jig, d’you know what a friend means?” he asked. “How d’you figure that word out?”
Jig considered. “A friend is somebody you know and like and are glad to have around.”
Contempt spread on the face of Sinclair. “That’s just about what I knew you’d say.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Son, they ain’t anything right about you, as far as I can make out. Wrong? You’re as wrong as a yearling in a blizzard. Wrong? I should tell a man you’re wrong! Lemme tell you what a friend is. He’s the bunkie that guards your back in a fight; he’s the man that can ask for your hoss or your gun or your life, no matter how bad you want ’em; he’s the gent that trusts you when the world calls you a liar; he’s the one that don’t grin when you’re in trouble, who gives a cheer when you’re going good. With a friend you let down the bars and turn your mind loose like wild hosses. I take out my soul like a gun and show it to my friend in the palm of my hand. It’s sure full of holes and stains, this life of mine, but my friend checks off the good agin’ the bad, and when you’re through he says: ‘Partner, now I like you better because I know you better.’
