The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  The other apparently missed the entire point of this remark. He said in his gentle, serious way: “He used to be real wild, Buck. But now he don’t mind people. He let the cook feed him a chunk o’ meat the other day; and you remember he don’t usually touch stuff that other men have handled.”

  “Yep,” grunted Buck, “it’s sure disgustin’ to have a dog as tame as that. I’d bet he ain’t killed another dog for a whole day, maybe!”

  And still Barry saw no irony in this.

  He answered, as gravely as before: “No, it was the day before yesterday. Somebody come to town and got drunk. He had two dogs, and sicked ’em on Bart.”

  Buck Daniels controlled an incipient shudder.

  “Both dead?”

  “I was inside the house,” said Dan sadly, “and it took me a couple of seconds to get outside. Of course by that time Bart had cut their throats.”

  “Of course. Didn’t the drunk guy try to pot Bart?”

  “Yes, he got out his gun; but, Mr. O’Brien, the bartender, persuaded him out of it. I was glad there wasn’t no trouble.”

  “My God!” exclaimed Buck Daniels. And then: “Well, let’s go inside. We’ll take your man-eater along, if you want to.”

  A shadow came in the eyes of Barry.

  “Can’t we talk jest as well out here?”

  “What’s the matter with findin’ some chairs?”

  “Because I don’t like to get inside walls. You know how four walls seem like so many pairs of eyes standin’ around you?”

  “No,” said Buck bluntly, “I don’t know nothin’ of the kind. What d’you mean?”

  “I dunno,” answered Barry, depressed. “It jest seems that way. Ain’t you noticed how sort of close it is in a house? Hard to breathe? Like you had on a shirt too small for you.”

  “We’ll stay out here, then.”

  The other nodded, smiled, and made a gesture to the dog behind him. Black Bart crouched on the ground, and Dan Barry sat down cross-legged, his shoulders leaning against the shaggy pelt of Bart. Daniels followed the example with less grace. He was thinking very hard and fast, and he rolled a Durham cigarette to fill the interlude.

  “I s’pose you’re bustin’ to find out the news about the folks,” he said dryly, at last.

  The other sat with his hands loosely clasped in his lap. His wide eyes looked far away, and there was about his lips that looseness, that lack of compression, which one sees so often in children. He might have sat, in that posture, for the statue of thoughtlessness.

  “What folks?” he asked at last.

  Buck Daniels had lighted a match, but now he sat staring blank until the match burned down to his fingers. With an oath he tossed the remnant away and lighted another. He had drawn down several long breaths of smoke to the bottom of his lungs before he could speak again.

  “Some people you used to know; I suppose you’ve forgotten all about ’em, eh?” His eyes narrowed; there was a spark of something akin to dread in them. “Kate Cumberland?” he queried.

  A light came in the face of Dan Barry.

  “Kate Cumberland?” he repeated. “How is she, Buck? Lately, I been thinkin’ about her every day.”

  A trembling took the body and the voice of Daniels; his errand, after all, might meet some success.

  “Kate?” he repeated. “Oh, ay, she’s well enough. But Joe Cumberland ain’t.”

  “No?”

  “He’s dyin’ Dan.”

  And Dan replied calmly. “He’s kind of old, I s’pose.”

  “Old?” said Buck, with a sort of horror. “Yes, he’s old, right enough. D’you know why he’s dying? It’s because you went away the way you done, Dan. That’s what’s killin’ him.”

  Something of thought came in the face of Barry.

  “Maybe I understand,” he said slowly. “If I was to lose Satan, or Bart—” here the great dog whined at the mention of his name, and Barry dropped a slender hand across the scarred forehead of his servant. “If I was to lose ’em, I’d sort of mourn for ’em, maybe.”

  Buck Daniels set his teeth.

  “I don’t suppose it seems possible,” he said, “that a man could miss another man the way you could miss your—dog, eh? But it is! Joe Cumberland is dying for you, Dan, as sure as if you’d put a bullet in his bowels.”

  The other hesitated and then frowned and made a gesture of vague dismissal.

  “Don’t you figure on doin’ nothing about it?” asked Buck softly.

  “What could I do?”

  “My God A’mighty, ain’t you got no human feelin’s?”

  “I dunno what you mean,” said the soft voice.

  “This! Can’t you git on your hoss and ride back with me to Cumberland Ranch? Stay with the old man till he gets back on his feet. Ain’t that easy to do? Is your time so damned valuable you can’t spare a few days for that?”

  “But I am goin’ back,” answered Dan, in a rather hurt voice. “They ain’t no need for cussin’ me, Buck. I been thinkin’ of Kate, every day, almost.”

  “Since when?”

  “I dunno.” Dan stirred uneasily. He looked up, and far above Buck, following the direction of Dan’s eyes, saw a pattern of wild geese. “I been sort of driftin’ North towards the Cumberland Ranch and Kate,” went on Dan. He sighed: “I been thinkin’ of her eyes, which is blue, Buck, and her hair, and the soft sound of her voice. They been hangin’ in my ears, stayin’ behind my eyes, lately, and I been driftin’ up that way steady.”

  “Why, man,” cried Buck, “then what’s there to keep you here? Jump on your hoss, and we’ll head North in ten minutes.”

  “I will!” said Dan, full as eagerly. “We’ll start full speed.”

  “Come on, then.”

  “Wait a minute!” said Dan, his voice growing suddenly cold. “I been forgettin’ something.”

  Buck Daniels turned and found his companion strangely changed. There was a set expression of coldness about his face, and a chill glitter in his eyes.

  “I got to wait here for something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They’s a man in town that may want to see me.”

  “Mac Strann! I’ve heard about him. Dan, are you goin’ to let Joe Cumberland die because you want to stay here and fight it out with a dirty cutthroat?”

  “I don’t want to fight,” protested Barry. “No, there ain’t nothin’ I like less than fightin’!”

  Buck Daniels cursed softly and continuously to himself.

  “Dan,” he said, “can you sit there and lie like that to me? Ain’t I seen you in action? Don’t I remember the way you trailed Jim Silent? Don’t I remember how we all got down and prayed you to keep away from Jim? Don’t I remember how you threw everything to hell so’s you could get your hands on Jim? My God A’mighty, man, didn’t I see your face when you had your fingers in Silent’s throat?”

  An expression of unutterable revulsion rippled over the face of Dan Barry.

  “Stop!” he commanded softly, and raised his slender hand. “Don’t keep on talkin’ about it. It makes me sick—all through. Oh, Buck, they’s a tingle in the tips of my fingers still from the time I had ’em in his throat. And it makes me feel unclean—the sort of uncleanness that won’t wash out with no kind of soap and water. Buck, I’d most rather die myself than fight a man!”

  A vast amazement overspread the countenance of Buck Daniels as he listened to this outburst; it was as if he had heard a healthy man proclaim that he had no desire for bread and meat. Something rose to his lips, but he swallowed it.

  “Then it looks kind of simple to me,” he said. “You hate fightin’. This gent Mac Strann likes it; he lives on it; he don’t do nothing but wait from day to day hungerin’ for a scrap. What’s the out? Jest this! You hop on your hoss and ride out with me. Young Jerry Strann kicks out—Mac Strann starts lookin’ for you—he hears that you’ve beat it—he goes off and forgets about you. Ain’t that simple?”

  The old uneasiness returned to the far-s
eeing eyes of Dan Barry.

  “I dunno,” he said, “maybe—”

  Then he paused again.

  “Have you got anything to say agin it?” urged Buck, arguing desperately.

  “I dunno,” repeated Barry, confused, “except that I keep thinking what a terrible disappointment it’ll be to this Mac Strann when his brother dies and I ain’t around.”

  Buck Daniels stared, blinked, and then burst into unmelodious laughter. Satan trotted across the corral and raised his head above the fence, whinnying softly. Barry turned his head and smiled up to the horse.

  Then he said: “Seems like if Jerry Strann dies I owe somebody something. Who? Mac Strann, I reckon. I sort of got to stay and give him his chance.”

  “I hope to God,” burst out Daniels, smashing his hands together, “that Mac Strann beats you to a pulp! That’s what I hope!”

  The eyes of Dan Barry widened.

  “Why d’you hope that?” he asked gently.

  It brought Daniels again to speechlessness.

  “Is it possible?” he growled to himself. “Are you a human bein’ and yet you think more of your hoss and your damned wolf-dog than you do of the life of a man? Dan, I’m askin’ you straight, is that a square thing to do?”

  The fragile hands went out to him, palm up.

  “Don’t you see, Buck? I don’t want to be this way. I jest can’t help it!”

  “Then the Lord help poor old Joe Cumberland—him that took you in out of the desert—him that raised you from the time you was a kid—him that nursed you like you was his own baby—him that loved you more’n he loved Kate—him that’s lyin’ back there now with fire in his eyes, waitin’, waitin’, waitin’, for you to come back. Dan, if you was to see him you’d go down on your knees and ask him to forgive you!”

  “I s’pose I would,” murmured Barry thoughtfully.

  “Dan, you’re goin’ to go with me!”

  “I don’t somehow think its my time for movin’, Buck.”

  “Is that all you got to say to me?”

  “I guess maybe it is, Buck.”

  “If I was to beg you to come for old-time’s sake, and all we been through together, you and me, wouldn’t it make no difference to you?”

  The large, gentle eyes focused far beyond Buck Daniels, somewhere on a point in the pale, hazy blue of the spring sky.

  “I’m kind of tired of talkin’, Buck,” he said at length.

  And Buck Daniels rose and walked slowly away, with his head fallen. Behind him the stallion neighed suddenly and loud, and it was so much like a blast of defiant triumph that Buck whirled and shook his clenched fist at Satan.

  CHAPTER XIV

  MUSIC FOR OLD NICK

  A thought is like a spur. It lifts the head of a man as the spur makes the horse toss his; and it quickens the pace with a subtle addition of strength. Such a thought came to Buck Daniels as he stepped again on the veranda of the hotel. It could not have been an altogether pleasant inspiration, for it drained the colour from his face and made him clench his broad hands; and next he loosened his revolver in its holster. A thought of fighting—of some desperate chance he had once taken, perhaps.

  But also it was a thought which needed considerable thought. He slumped into a wicker chair at one end of the porch and sat with his chin resting on his chest while he smoked cigarette after cigarette and tossed the butts idly over the rail. More than once he pressed his hand against his lips as though there were sudden pains there. The colour did not come back to his face; it continued as bloodless as ever, but there was a ponderable light in his eyes, and his jaws became more and more firmly set. It was not a pleasant face to watch at that moment, for he seemed to sit with a growing resolve.

  Long moments passed before he moved a muscle, but then he heard, far away, thin, and clear, whistling from behind the hotel. It was no recognisable tune. It was rather a strange improvisation, with singable fragments here and there, and then wild, free runs and trills. It was as if some bird of exquisite singing powers should be taken in a rapture of song, so that it whistled snatches here and there of its usual melody, but all between were great, whole-throated rhapsodies. As the sound of this whistling came to him, Buck raised his head suddenly. And finally, still listening, he rose to his feet and turned into the dining-room.

  There he found the waitress he had met before, and he asked her for the name of the doctor who took care of the wounded Jerry Strann.

  “There ain’t no doc,” said the waitress. “It’s Fatty Matthews, the deputy marshal, who takes care of that Strann—bad luck to him! Fatty’s in the barroom now. But what’s the matter? You seem like you was hearin’ something?”

  “I am,” replied Daniels enigmatically. “I’m hearin’ something that would be music for the ears of Old Nick.”

  And he turned on his heel and strode for the barroom. There he found Fatty in the very act of disposing of a stiff three-fingers of red-eye. Daniels stepped to the bar, poured his own drink, and then stood toying with the glass. For though the effect of red-eye may be pleasant enough, it has an essence which appalls the stoutest heart and singes the most leathery throat; it is to full-grown men what castor oil is to a child. Why men drink it is a mystery whose secret is known only to the profound soul of the mountain-desert. But while Daniels fingered his glass he kept an eye upon the other man at the bar.

  It was unquestionably the one he sought. The excess flesh of the deputy marshal would have brought his nickname to the mind of an imbecile. However, Fatty was humming softly to himself, and it is not the habit of men who treat very sick patients to sing.

  “I’ll hit it agin,” said Fatty. “I need it.”

  “Have a bad time of it to-day?” asked O’Brien sympathetically.

  “Bad time to-day? Yep, an’ every day is the same. I tell you, O’Brien, it takes a pile of nerve to stand around that room expectin’ Jerry to pass out any minute, and the eyes of that devil Mac Strann followin’ you every step you make. D’you know, if Jerry dies I figure Mac to go at my throat like a bulldog.”

  “You’re wrong, Fatty,” replied O’Brien. “That ain’t his way about it. He takes his time killin’ a man. Waits till he can get him in a public place and make him start the picture. That’s Mac Strann! Remember Fitzpatrick? Mac Strann followed Fitz nigh onto two months, but Fitz knew what was up and he never would make a move. He knowed that if he made a wrong pass it would be his last. So he took everything and let it pass by. But finally it got on his nerves. One time—it was right here in my barroom, Fatty—”

  “The hell you say!”

  “Yep, that was before your time around these parts. But Fitz had a couple of jolts of red-eye under his vest and felt pretty strong. Mac Strann happened in and first thing you know they was at it. Well, Fitz was a big man. I ain’t small, but I had to look up when I talked to Fitz. Scotch-Irish, and they got fightin’ bred into their bone. Mac Strann passed him a look and Fitz come back with a word. Soon as he got started he couldn’t stop. Wasn’t a pretty thing to watch, either. You could see in Fitz’s face that he knew he was done for before he started, but he wouldn’t, let up. The booze had him going and he was too proud to back down. Pretty soon he started cussing Mac Strann.

  “Well, by that time everybody had cleared out of the saloon, because they knowed that them sort of words meant bullets comin’. But Mac Strann jest stood there watchin’, and grinnin’ in his ugly way—damn his soul black!—and never sayin’ a word back. By God, Fatty, he looked sort of hungry. When he grinned, his upper lip went up kind of slow and you could see his big teeth. I expected to see him make a move to sink ’em in the throat of Fitz. But he didn’t. Nope, he didn’t make a move, and all the time Fitz ravin’ and gettin’ worse and worse. Finally Fitz made the move. Yep, he pulled his gun and had it damned near clean on Mac Strann before that devil would stir. But when he did, it was jest a flash of light. Both them guns went off, but Mac’s bullet hit Fitz’s hand and knocked the gun out of it—so of course his shot
went wild. But Fitz could see his own blood, and you know what that does to the Scotch-Irish? Makes some people quit cold to see their own blood. I remember a kid at school that was a whale at fightin’ till his nose got to bleedin’, or something, and then he’d quit cold. But you take a Scotch-Irishman and it works just the other way. Show him his own colour and he goes plumb crazy.

  “That’s what happened to Fitz. When he saw the blood on his hand he made a dive at Mac Strann. After that it wasn’t the sort of thing that makes a good story. Mac Strann got him around the ribs and I heard the bones crack. God! And him still squeezin’, and Fitz beatin’ away at Mac’s face with his bleedin’ hand.

  “Will you b’lieve that I stood here and was sort of froze? Yes, Fatty, I couldn’t make a move. And I was sort of sick and hollow inside the same way I went one time when I was a kid and seen a big bull horn a yearlin’.

  “Then I heard the breath of Fitz comin’ hoarse, with a rattle in it—and I heard Mac Strann whining like a dog that’s tasted blood and is starvin’ for more. A thing to make your hair go up on end, like they say in the story-books.

  “Then Fitz—he was plumb mad—tried to bite Mac Strann. And then Mac let go of him and set his hands on the throat of Fitz. It happened like a flash—I’m here to swear that I could hear the bones crunch. And then Fitz’s mouth sagged open and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and Mac Strann threw him down on the floor. Just like that! Damn him! And then he stood over poor dead Fitz and kicked him in those busted ribs and turned over to the bar and says to me: ‘Gimme!’

  “Like a damned beast! He wanted to drink right there with his dead man beside him. And what was worse, I had to give him the bottle. There was a sort of haze in front of my eyes. I wanted to pump that devil full of lead, but I knowed it was plain suicide to try it.

  “So there he stood and ups with a glass that was brimmin’ full, and downs it at a swallow—gurglin’—like a hog! Fatty, how long will it be before there’s an end to Mac Strann?”

  But Fatty Matthews shrugged his thick shoulders and poured himself another drink.

  “There ain’t a hope for Jerry Strann?” cut in Buck Daniels.