The Quest

by Max Brand

  He had put a long stretch behind him before he heard the roar of the pursuit break out at Jumping Creek. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that the town that he had left buried in night was now blooming with lights as though this were no more than supper time.

  He was not a fine rider by any means, but he had had constant practice since he came to Jumping Creek, and he had sense enough to listen to good advice and to follow it. There were no better riders in the world than the Pendletons, and they had given him the benefit of their advice. He used it now. His instinct was to ride with a loose rein and to let the racing mare have her head, but he had been told that it was far better to steady a racer in its stride, to swing the body of the rider in the rhythm of the horse. So he swung himself now, and carefully jockeyed the mare straight down the road.

  Was there any means of cutting him off on the way by telephone? He hoped not, if he could get past the McGuire place, which was the last station out from the creek. So he burned up the road past the McGuire house just as the lights began to flash on in that darkly outlined building on the hill.

  Yes, they had been warned, and they would be out, riding hard in the pursuit, but he, half a mile farther up the road, flung himself from the back of the half-exhausted mare.

  He had loosened the saddle while she was still at full speed; now he stripped the bridle from her lean head and pulled the saddle off before she had fairly halted. A slap on the flank sent her cantering ahead. She knew the way home, and she would keep to it, wandering across the open fields, perhaps pausing to graze here and there, until she reached the place.

  Here, in a tangle of brush, there was a staunch roan gelding on whose back he was flinging the saddle, tightening the cinch straps with a single haul against them, and speeding on at full gallop. There was no need of whip and spur now. The roan would hit his own upper limit and would keep at it without any urging.

  At that pace the mustang would last, as Paradise Al knew from experience, a full five brisk miles. After that there was another relay.

  He had three return horses in his string, and they were all pressed into service on this night of nights.

  The five miles slid away behind him. The sound of the pursuit died out behind him.

  Now he was peeling the saddle from the roan and sending it on ahead, relieved of its burden, while that same dripping, hot saddle was clapped over the wincing loins of a strong brown mare. She was the best of the lot, mountain bred, and therefore at her top in the ups and downs of the last stretch toward home. She knew the dying of the road into the trail, and where the trail itself faded out, every hole and every rock that might endanger her running. Her gait was smooth.

  As Al leaned above her, close along the neck to offer less resistance to the wind, patting her neck now and then, speaking to her gently, never touching her with whip or heel, he watched the tremor and the pricking of her ears and told himself that he was a fortunate man indeed. She was no trickster. It was all honest service.

  When they came, finally, to the long upward slope, he pulled her back to a trot, although she was willing enough to break her heart in making that lift, and, although he was fidgeting to get on, for he had much to do before he could rest with any security, waiting for the coming of the posse.

  At last the slope was mounted, and on the rolling level of the upper plateau he gave her free rein again. Valiantly she ran, until the obscure outline of the cabin appeared and grew plain before him.

  He sent his shout ringing before him: “Pendleton! Hey, Rory!”

  A half-dressed man ran out to meet him as he arrived.

  Paradise Al sprang from the horse. “Take the horse. Off with the saddle. Turn her in the pasture.”

  “You should have rode Sullivan,” gasped Pendleton. “He would have whisked you away from danger.”

  “And been found dripping with sweat, eh, when the posse arrived?”

  “Is a posse coming?”

  “Yes. There’s no way out from this except to bluff them. We have two or three minutes. Run like the devil. I’ll pile out of my clothes and get into bed. Understand? Get to the haystack, mark the place. Here’s the loot. Jam it into the hay as far as your arm will stretch.”

  “A haystack! You mean to say that there’s twenty thousand dollars in this wad?”

  “More than that. Are you going to stand talking here like a fool when they’re burning up the ground to get at us? Hurry!” He was turning into the door of the shack as he spoke, loosening buttons from their holes, and rapidly he shed his clothes. He stuck his head out the door again to shout: “Stick that wet saddle blanket into the haystack, too! And rub down the saddle flaps a couple of licks.”

  His own riding trousers were sweat-stained about the knees, and up from the ankles along the calf of the leg. He felt them anxiously. Far away he heard the clamor of armed hoofs upon rocks. It beat against his ears, and then failed again.

  They were coming, and they were coming hard. Would Pendleton have sufficient time to do all that was required of him? Would he bungle things in a moment of confusion? One wrong step, one thing left undone, and that keen-witted fox, the banker, would be sure to find the missing clues.

  He could thank heaven that he had not ridden Sullivan, tempted as he had been to that. For Sullivan found in the pasture, still panting, would have been in himself sufficient evidence against him.

  The moist riding trousers he hung on a peg against the wall under a slicker. He took another pair and draped them over the chair beside his bed. In another moment he was deep in the blankets. There he lay in the bed, with his arms flung out sideways, his eyes closed, his breath coming deeply. Gradually his heart stopped racing, his nerves quit jumping. But it cost him a great effort of the will.

  A man’s eyes, when he wakens from sleep, are always filmed with moisture. Perhaps they are swollen and reddened a little. Now he compressed his eyelids with all his might, until he felt the moisture of tears oozing out on the lashes.

  In the meantime there came the pounding of hoofs; they were coming across the rolling ground; they had mounted the slope.

  Pendleton came hurrying in.

  “Into bed!” snapped Al. “It’s Wallace Taggert himself. He blundered on me in the middle of the job. He knew my voice. But we’ll bluff him out. Did you do everything?”

  “Everything you asked,” said the other. “Twenty thousand, you say?”

  “And more,” said Paradise Al.

  IX

  The storm of the posse poured up about the cabin, and what a storm. It seemed as if half the riders in Jumping Creek must have made up this mob.

  “Yell out!” he called to Pendleton.

  Rory Pendleton rose magnificently to the part.

  “Who’s there? Hold on! Keep out of this house! Who’s there?” thundered Rory Pendleton.

  “We’ll show you damn’ soon!” called several in answer.

  “Keep back or I’ll shoot!” said Pendleton.

  “Who are you?” said voices from among the crowding figures at the doorway.

  “Rory Pendleton.”

  “You are, are you? Has your son come back?” demanded the panting voice of Wallace Taggert.

  “Come back from where?”

  “From Jumping Creek. Is he there?”

  “He’s where he’s been all night. He’s in his bed. No, he’s up now. Al, don’t let them in. There’s bad blood in the air.”

  “Here . . . I’ll take charge,” said Timothy Drayton, getting to the front at last, for his weight had made his horse backward. He stood at the door of the cabin, breathing hard.

  “Al Pendleton, are you in there?” he called.

  “Hello!” said Paradise Al. “That you?”

  “Yeah. It’s me,” said Drayton.

  “Come in,” said the young man. “It’s all right, Father. It’s the sheriff.”

  “Sheriff or not, it’s a Drayton,” said Pendleton. “I don’t like this business.”

  “Stuff,” said Al. “It’s Moll
y’s father.”

  “Don’t count on that,” broke in the sheriff. “I’m here in the name of the law. I want you for burglary . . . the worst kind. I want you for robbing the Taggert Bank!”

  Paradise Al whistled. “Robbing the Taggert Bank?” he said. “That’s all right, too. Light that lantern, Father, will you, beside your bunk?”

  The lantern was lighted. It revealed Paradise Al in the act of stepping into his trousers. He paused to wave one hand in greeting toward the excited, dusty, curious faces.

  It had not been expected that things would go this way. Paradise Al was a fighting man.

  But there they were, with guns in their hands, and there was he, disarmed and helpless before them, actually rising from his bed and dressing.

  Wallace Taggert, with a burning eye, stared at Paradise Al. How would this rascal attempt to escape from him, an eyewitness, backed by the power of twenty armed men?

  Al was completing his dressing without haste as the sheriff laid a strong brown hand on his shoulder, saying: “Al, I hate to do it, but I arrest you in the name of the law. Anything you say may be used against you. I gotta warn you of that. I’m sorry about this.”

  “Yes,” murmured Al, looking calmly into the eyes of Tim Drayton, “I know how sorry you’d be to see me in the soup. I know how happy you’ve been about Molly’s plan to marry a Pendleton. I know all about it.” And he laughed a little, but without great malice. He went on: “When was this bank robbed? I never heard of Taggert losing a penny in his life.”

  “The bank was robbed tonight, son,” said Taggert, thrusting out his long, lean jaw as he spoke. “And you’re puttin’ up a wonderful bluff, but the bluff ain’t good enough. I heard your voice. You know what we said to one another.”

  The young man paused in the buttoning of his shirt. “I see how it is. Oh, I see.” He turned suddenly on the sheriff. He pointed an accusing finger at the banker, saying: “D’you understand, Mister Drayton? I went in this very day to try to raise some money. I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to take a big chance, so that Molly wouldn’t have to start like a beggar when she married me. And just because I tried to borrow a lot of money from that skinflint, now he says that I’ve robbed his bank.”

  He walked up to Wallace Taggert. That long, lank man towered above him. Dropping his hands on his hips, Paradise Al looked up to him with gleaming brown eyes and said: “I wish that I had robbed the bank. It would have been a good thing if I could have carted away every penny that you own. It would have taken a curse off the range, and every man here knows it.”

  Two or three men grinned and involuntarily nodded.

  The sheriff, frowning, muttered: “A couple of you go out and look for Sullivan. I guess you all know what he looks like. He’s in the pasture field behind the house, yonder. Look him over with a lantern. He’ll come up to the light, I guess. And if there’s a drop of sweat on him, it means a long rest in stripes for you, my son.” He said the last grimly, staring at the young man.

  “Thanks, Sheriff.” Paradise Al nodded. “As a father-in-law, you’re a shining crown, all right. But I didn’t expect anything else. Go out and look Sullivan over, fellows. Or, wait a minute. I’ll call him in, and you can look at him here.”

  He pressed to the door through the crowd. Two or three of the posse looked questioningly at the sheriff, but the latter, his face as hard as a rock, merely said: “That’s all right. I guess he won’t try any of his shifty tricks this deal.”

  It was apparent that was the very thing the sheriff hoped for—a break on the part of Paradise Al that would be the equivalent of a confession of his guilt.

  From the doorway the young fellow whistled, waited, whistled again. Presently a beat of hoofs was heard. It swept up to the house. A neigh rang louder than a trumpet in front of the house, and there was the stallion, thrusting in his long neck and nosing at the hand of his master, then stepping back, snorting, and stamping defiance at the rest of the crowd.

  “Why, he’s as dry as a stubble field,” said someone. “There ain’t a speck of sweat on him. Taggert, have you gone and sold us . . . damn you!”

  “You people are half-witted,” said Taggert, “if you think that Paradise Al would ride the horse on a job like this. He knows that we’d hunt for Sullivan as soon as for him. He knew that, so he took some other nag. Look over the rest of the horses, and see if you find some wet saddle marks.”

  “Where are the rest of the horses?” asked the sheriff, scowling at Paradise.

  “You know I let ‘em run on the range,” said Al. “I’m not working anything but Sullivan this season of the year. But you fellows go out and comb the range. You may find some of ‘em here and there. You know my brand. Sometimes they get tangled a little with the Wilson horses, but you can weed ‘em out with a little time and care.”

  There was a general exchange of gloomy glances. It was no one’s pleasure to hunt for stray horses on a big range by night.

  “Let the horses go for a minute,” said the sheriff. “I thought that we’d find Sullivan dripping, by thunder. Al,” he added, turning sharply on the young man, “are you really square in this?”

  It was a peculiarity of Paradise Al that, although he often had had to dodge telling the truth in the eventful course of his life, he disliked telling a direct lie if he could avoid it. Now he simply said to Drayton: “I want no more talk out of you, Drayton. I see your hand, and I don’t like the look of it. Did you and Taggert work up this crooked deal for the sake of breaking me and running me out of the country? Is that the way you’re trying to keep Molly away from me?”

  He worked himself into a cold passion as he spoke. We do not have to have the right on our side in order to scale high peaks of wrath. Now, leaning a little forward, with his lips pinched hard together and his eyes gleaming, a very dangerous man appeared Paradise Al, and other men, watching him, knowing what he could do with weapons, drew back a trifle from him.

  Drayton, however, took the affront in a large way, saying: “It sounds hard, I know. But I ain’t got a strong grudge against you, Al. It may be that I don’t like everything that you plan to do in this here world. But . . . that’s not my business. I’m here for the law, and not for myself. You’ve got to believe that.”

  Al shrugged his shoulders and turned away. “If I robbed the bank, the loot is somewhere around here. You’d better search. Search that bed first, because I’m turning in again as soon as you’re through with it.” He sat down on a chair and crossed his legs.

  Stiffly and helplessly the cowpunchers and the citizens of Jumping Creek stood about the room. It was not the sort of scene they had prefigured. The capture of a bank robber, when a fighting man is involved, is supposed to call forth exciting gun plays. Instead, it seemed that there was to be nothing but a dreary bit of house searching. No one was ready for such business as that.

  Even the sheriff was dumbfounded, and he said to Taggert: “Now let’s have the best part of your evidence. The quicker that we get through this deal, the better for all hands. What have you got to say that’ll put this man behind the bars?”

  Said Taggert: “I talked to him in my own office. I heard his voice. I named him, and he answered back. I told him that he was a goner, and he told me back that he’d get out here before the sheriff could, and that he’d bluff us all out of our faces. And that’s what he’s doing.”

  “What you say, you sneaking bloodsucker,” exclaimed Paradise Al in what was apparently another hearty outburst of wrath, “doesn’t weigh against the word of any decent man!” He whirled back toward the sheriff. “You mean to say,” he cried out, “that you’ve dragged this crowd out here because of what that thing said? Where’s the proof that the bank was robbed, after all?”

  “A safe was blown open, Al,” said the sheriff sternly. “Is that proof enough to suit you?”

  “Well,” replied the young fellow, “get your dirty work over, will you? I’m tired. There’s a working day ahead of me, unless I’m railroaded into jail. And I w
ant my sleep.”

  He sat down again, and yawned profoundly in front of them all.

  X

  They searched the place for eight hours. The morning was well along, and still men were dredging here and there, prying into odd nooks and corners, with the lank form of Wallace Taggert in the lead, making suggestions. He offered $5,000 reward to the man who found the loot, or any important part of it. That was in the dawning of the day.

  At least half of the men returned to Jumping Creek, heartily cursing the sheriff, and, above all, furious with Wallace Taggert. They declared that he deserved worse than the robbery that had befallen him for leading them on a wild-goose chase.

  When that party went off, every man of them came and shook hands with Paradise Al, apologizing for joining in a hunt against him.

  He was at his best in making his answer to them, saying merely: “You don’t have to apologize. I know how it is. If there’s a hunt on hand, every fellow wants to get in on it. As long as there’s a wolf afoot, nobody much cares what the name of the wolf is, or whose calf it killed. It’s all right, fellows.” He gripped them all by the hand and watched them ride away.

  Those who remained were still probing in the shed, lifting rocks, prying into the hollows of trees and holes in the ground, while Paradise Al worked busily on the top of the house, completing the roofing. There was need for haste, because this day clouds were blowing over the sky and piling up in the darkened north. It might rain.

  In the meantime, from his post of vantage he could sweep a wide section of the country with his eye and follow the workings of the searchers. But he was not at all excited until he saw the tall, crane-like form of Wallace Taggert approach the haystack.

  Well and widely and loftily had that stack been built, but Taggert took a ladder that leaned against the pile and went around it bit by bit, probing, with the handle of a pitchfork, sometimes boldly, sometimes gingerly, holding his head askance, as when a man has to trust to a delicate sense of touch and hearing rather than to sight.