Lightning of Gold

by Max Brand

  “I’ll tell you,” said Menneval. “You were always one of the fellows who thinks that he’s going straight. Bad today. But tomorrow, you’ll wash your hands as clean as clean. Eh?”

  He smiled, but Lyons remained grave.

  “There’s where you’re wrong. I’ve always wanted to go straight. And now I’ve done it.”

  “With a price on your head?” asked Menneval.

  “There’s no price on my head. That’s been taken off. It’s not murder that they want me for. It’s other things. Plenty of other things. But I’m working. I have a pull, here and there. I have some money. I think that before long I can go down and stand trial and clear up my record, in the eyes of the law.”

  “You were always an optimist, too.” Menneval nodded.

  “Perhaps I’m foolish. I don’t think so,” replied the other. “I have a decent stake saved up.”

  “Decent stake?” Menneval said, and smiled.

  Lyons frowned. “I know what you mean. Dirty money. I tell you, man, that I’ve spent the dirty money. It went as it came. But what I’m talking about is honest stuff, made by honest work. I found a rift of pay dirt up in the mountains. I worked it with my own hands. I took three hundred pounds of dust out of it. Nuggets, a lot of ’em. Three hundred pounds of red gold. That’s what changed me, that and the girl.”

  “How could it change you, that much easy money?”

  “I got to thinking . . . you may call me a fool . . . that when God gives so many chances to a worthless ruffian like me, He wants him to change.”

  “Aye,” Menneval said, sneering. “And you always have had your religious streak, too.”

  “You can sneer,” said Lyons calmly. “Why are you here, Menneval? To pick a fight with me?”

  “I’m here to save your life,” Menneval answered with equal quiet.

  His companion started, even glanced over his shoulder, as though danger might be approaching stealthily behind him at that moment.

  “No, he’s not in the room. But he’ll be here before long,” said Menneval. “So you’re going straight, Chet? Going to pay half your money to a foxy lawyer and have him give you a clean slate?”

  “I’m going to try to manage it. I think that I can. For two years, there’s nothing chalked up against me. People have been yammering a good deal against me, accusing me of this and that. Some of the boys have stuck to me, hoping that I’d lead them. But they’ve led themselves. I’ve only been a name and a figurehead, waiting for the time when I could make my move, and that time has just about come. I’ve got to go. The girl wants me to.”

  “That’s pretty Nan, of course?”

  “That’s Nan. More than pretty. That’s skin-deep. She’s the sweetest soul that ever was called a woman, Menneval.”

  “But, still, a woman,” Menneval said with his habitual sneer.

  At this the lips of Lyons twitched and a frown darkened his forehead, but, when he looked straight into the face of the other, something stopped him. It was like the touch of a cold wind. He shivered a little and looked down at the table.

  “I’ve told you what I’m doing and intend to do,” said Lyons. “I don’t know why I’ve been such a loose-tongued fool. I know that you don’t care a whit.”

  Here a great hubbub broke out up the street of the village. It grew so loud, such a roar of shouting, such Indian cries and whoops of distant laughter, that it drew from the dining room every man who had barely begun his breakfast. But Menneval and his companion paid no heed to it whatever. They continued to face one another across the narrow table.

  “First, I’ll be a prophet, and then I’ll tell you why I care,” said Menneval. “To begin with, I’ll tell you exactly what will happen to you. Young Crosson is going to track you down. Probably in this very town he’ll find you, and he’ll kill you out of hand.”

  The head of Lyons went up a little. “He’s a strange youngster,” he stated. “I’ve seen the proofs of that. Maybe you know him better.”

  “I do,” said Menneval shortly.

  “I know him well enough to see that he’s dangerous. But I’m able to take care of myself. I ran from him last night . . . that was because of the girl. I’ll never take a back step before him again, in all the rest of the days of my life. I never have taken a back step.”

  “Except once,” Menneval commented coldly.

  Lyons flushed. “It’s true,” he said. “I took a back step before you one day. But I’m a harder man now than I was then.”

  “Let me tell you,” said Menneval soberly, “that, if I was a fighting machine, in those days I was nothing to what this lad is. He has the cunning and the skill. He has the strength. More than that, he has the will. He could jump over mountains . . . he could swim over oceans. He has the will to do it.”

  Lyons shrugged his shoulders, but he listened intently.

  “If you stay here,” went on Menneval, “you’re no better than a dead man. You’re surrounded by people. But he’ll manage to get at you someday. And two seconds later, you’ll lie dead, with your three hundred pounds of red gold, and all of that.”

  He pointed at the floor, and so emphatic was his manner that the other instinctively looked down and changed color a little, as though he saw himself already stretched lifeless there, his eyes glazed, his powerless arms thrown wide.

  He swallowed with a decided effort. “You say what you think. It’s not what I think. And even if it were true, even if I’d seen my death warrant signed, I tell you that I’d never shame myself by running away from any man.”

  Menneval leaned forward across the table. “You will,” he said softly, insistently.

  “Never in my life.”

  “Listen to me, Lyons. Frankly I don’t give a damn about you. The Crossons are the people I take an interest in. I have a reason to. There’s something between me and old Peter Crosson that the world doesn’t dream of. You might die and rot, and little I’d care. But I want to keep the hands of the boy clean. So I say that you’re going to leave this town and leave it at once. You are going to do as I say. Do you understand?”

  Lyons shrugged his shoulders; slowly he shook his head. But he was fascinated by the fire in the eyes of Menneval and, to his amazement, the combination of authority and pleading in his voice. He knew much of Menneval. He knew enough to swear that he never in his life had condescended to plead before.

  “I’ll tell you what you’ll do,” said Menneval. “You’ll saddle fresh horses. I’ve already bought some. They’re ready for you this minute. You and the girl will ride straight across country. You’ll hit the railroad. When the boy picks up your trail . . . and nothing in the world could keep him from doing it . . . you’ll probably have enough of a head start to distance him. Anyway, if you haven’t, I’ll follow on behind you and turn him off the trail, if I can. And I think that I can. I know that you’re not persuaded yet. Am I right?”

  “Leave this country? It’s the only place where I’m safe. Away from here . . . leaving out the shame of running away before that boy . . . I’ll be lost. This is my only country. I’ve not been a world rover, like you.”

  Menneval went on: “I’ll give you everything that you need. I have friends in the shipping business in San Francisco. You get the train to the city. You go straight to the Rixey and Parkhouse offices. You ask for old man Parkhouse. I’ll give you a note to him, and the minute he sees the writing, everything that he has is yours.”

  “You’ve made friends, too, in your way around the world?” asked Lyons curiously. He seemed almost as much interested in this revelation of character as he did in the import of Menneval’s persuasions.

  “I’ve made a few friends,” said the other briefly. “You’ll find them good friends as well. Don’t doubt them. They’ll take you and the girl away to Honolulu. Better, they’ll cruise you through the South Seas. You’ll stop off where you please. You’ll be treated like a king and a princess. It’ll be an education for you.”

  “And the whole thing will be given
absolutely for nothing, eh?” said Lyons.

  “In the meantime,” Menneval said insistently, “I’ll have two lawyers that I know work up your case hand in glove with your own man. Graham and Steele are the men I speak of.”

  Lyons said with an oath: “Have you got those fellows in your pocket?”

  “I have . . . absolutely in my pocket and in the hollow of my hand.” He paused. “As for the cost of traveling, it’s pretty high, I know. But I’ll pay the way. I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars if you’ll take my advice, save your life, give your girl a cruise that will open her mind and add to her culture. When you come back home, you’ll be safe from young Crosson . . . I’ll guarantee you that . . . and I’ll also guarantee that I’ll have the way for your return to the ways of legal life made as smooth as silk for you.”

  “If you can do that,” said Lyons, “why don’t you do it for yourself?”

  “Because I can’t,” Menneval said, again sneering. “The marks against you are little streaks of mist, here and there. The marks on my slate are blood. Now give me an answer, Lyons. Look me straight in the eye and let me have your answer right now.”

  A long, long moment did the silent stare pass between them.

  Then Lyons shook his head. “No,” he declared.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  As though to mark the importance of this crisis in the conversation, the uproar in the street sank away to a confused babbling that was hardly audible in the dining room of the hotel.

  “That ends it, I suppose,” Menneval said bitterly. He stirred in his chair, as though he felt the prick of the decision to the core of his being.

  Lyons merely nodded. “What staggers me, Menneval,” he said finally, “is that you’re making this effort for the Crossons. I never would have guessed that anybody in the wide world . . .”

  Menneval lifted his hand, impatiently, to stop the comment. “All that we’re able to guess about one another,” he said, “is surface stuff, rot, driftwood. Tell me, Lyons. The crux of the thing is the girl, eh?”

  The other nodded once more. Then he explained: “I’ve liked the wild life well enough. But I wanted something better than that, something more real and lasting and solid. Something like a chance at permanent happiness. I can have that, looking after Nan.”

  “Bah!” exploded Menneval. “In two years, she’ll be married and gone from you.”

  “She’ll be married, perhaps,” said Lyons, “but she won’t be gone from me. She’s not the kind that chucks old friends overboard.”

  In the manner of Menneval there was at all times an essential ferocity that was never hidden very far beneath the surface. It came out in a flash now. “Sometimes I think,” he said savagely, “that the only great fools in the world are the optimists.”

  “I won’t fight with you,” Lyons answered calmly. “But look at yourself. What is it other than optimism that makes you want to spend fifty thousand dollars on the Crossons?”

  Before he could get an answer to this, Nan came hurriedly back into the room. The emptiness of it seemed to frighten her for an instant as she paused at the door, but then she located Lyons at the table and came hastily toward him. She was very altered. They stood up to meet her and saw that her face was pale, her lips a little pinched, her eyes blazing with excitement.

  “What is it, Nan?” asked Lyons.

  “Where’s Ranger?” Menneval demanded angrily. “Did he leave you in the lurch? That’s not like him.”

  “Lefty Ranger is a splendid fellow,” she said. “He didn’t leave me in the lurch.”

  “Sit down,” said Lyons. “Sit down and tell me about it, will you? What’s happened? Did it have anything to do with that hurly-burly up the street?”

  “Yes. It was the hurly-burly. I’ll tell you what I saw . . . half a dozen men trying to make a fool out of one . . . half a dozen of them trying to bully him . . . and Lefty Ranger jumped into the circle and stood with the single man, because he was a friend.”

  “Did Lefty do that?” Menneval asked curiously, almost sadly. “Aye, there’s always more courage than you expect in an honest man.”

  “They roped Lefty, and then the other fellow went for the bullies like a panther. It was a wild thing to see. He knocked a big fellow out of the saddle . . .”

  “With a bullet?”

  “No, with the weight of his own body. He jumped like a wildcat, I tell you. I never saw anything so beautiful, and horrible . . . and the lot of them scattered. And do you know who Lefty’s friend is?”

  “Well?” said Lyons.

  “I can guess,” muttered Menneval.

  “Yes, it was young Oliver Crosson. And he’s coming down the street toward the hotel this minute. He’s . . .”

  Someone came into the doorway and paused there, half seen. All the three turned tensely, in that direction. But it was only Lefty Ranger who came into the room.

  He walked like a man who is overburdened by a great weight. His head and shoulders hung. When he came up to the group at the table, he looked them over with a dull eye of worry. Then he said, with an unexpected authority: “Nan, you’d better go up to your room. I’ve got to talk to Lyons.”

  “I want to hear,” said the girl.

  “You can’t hear,” said the trapper. “You go up to your room. I’ve gotta talk some hard things over with Lyons, here.”

  “Yes,” said Lyons. “Go up, Nan.”

  She stepped to him and took his hands. “You won’t go outside?” she pleaded.

  He hesitated a minute before answering.

  “You’d do it to prove that you’re a brave man. But I know how brave you are. Everyone does. And this fellow is not like other men. He’s not human at all. It was terrible and horrible to see the way he handled those ’punchers.”

  “I’ll do what’s right, Nan,” said Lyons. “And I won’t go outside unless I let you know beforehand. Now, you go upstairs.”

  She went, reluctantly, pausing at the door to smile back at Chester Lyons.

  Then the three men sat down again.

  “She’s told you what happened?” said Ranger.

  They nodded. They hung on his words, both of them, with a sort of desperate eagerness.

  “I’ve been with young Crosson,” said Lefty Ranger. “He wants you, Lyons. He wants you pretty bad. But there’s something else that has happened. He’s lost his head about Nan.”

  “That fiend . . . that human wolf . . . he’s looked at Nan?” said Lyons fiercely. “I’ll . . .”

  “Wait a moment,” broke in Menneval. “We’ll have some more of this. Go on, Lefty.”

  Said Ranger: “She hit him hard. I’ll tell you what he said. He said that she was a lightning of gold . . . he’s on fire about her. He’s blazing. Then I tried to tell him that if he got off your trail, he’d have a chance to see her.”

  “I’d rather see her dead,” Lyons hissed. “What put such an idea in your head, Ranger?”

  “What else was I to do?” said Lefty Bill. “Otherwise, he’d be here now.”

  “I’m to shake hands with him and turn Nan over to him, is that it?” said Lyons, white with anger.

  “I wish it could be as easy as all that,” answered Lefty. “It ain’t, though. The fact is, nothing will put him off your trail very long. He’s taken an oath, he says, that he’ll have it out with you and do to you what you did to the wolf.”

  “It was Wully who shot the wolf,” said Lyons.

  “I tried to say it might not be you. It doesn’t make any difference. You’re the man who led the gang. That’s all he’ll think or remember. He wants blood for blood. He’s going to have it . . . and God help your unlucky soul.” He paused. He had spoken so solemnly, so hopelessly that the other two exchanged glances. The pallor of Lyons was not caused by anger, now.

  Ranger continued: “I tried to argue. You can’t argue with a man like him. He has his idea. It’s kind of sacred to him. That wolf saved his life once. He feels that the way to pay back, now, is to get at you
. There’s only one thing in the world that can get him off your trail.”

  “What’s that?” asked Menneval.

  “Why, something that makes him hate another man more than he hates Lyons, and I reckon that ain’t possible. But he’s waiting down the street in the Wayfarer’s Saloon. He’s in the back room of it, sitting in the shadow.”

  “Drinking?” asked Menneval sharply.

  “He doesn’t know what drink tastes like,” said Ranger. “I don’t suppose that he ever tasted it in his life. He ain’t like other people in any way. He knows that I’m up here talking to you, Lyons. He hardly knows why. Neither do I. But he’s a friend of mine now. And so I persuaded him. And now I want to persuade you to get out of town and get fast and far. That’s the only way to keep your neck safe, and keep murder off the hands of the boy.”

  “Aye,” Menneval broke in. “You see how it is, Lyons. Even Ranger sees right through the matter and has come to the only conclusion. Are you going to let your pride kill you, man?”

  The Chinaman, clearing away the dishes from the long table, was making a great clattering. Menneval turned and silenced him with a glance that made him cower.

  Chester Lyons, stiffly erect, his eyes fixed upon empty space straight before him, was like a statue for a long moment. Then he moistened his lips a little. Breathing seemed hard for him.

  “Don’t be ashamed, man,” said Menneval. He leaned forward and spoke softly, as though he hoped that the words he spoke would sink into the brain of the listener and become a helpful part of the processes of his mind. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in back-stepping before a fellow like Crosson. You’ve seen that he’s not like other natural men. There’s a different strain in him. He’s a new cut and another way. Get out of Shannon. Do as I’ve advised you and as Ranger tells you. Or you’ll be a dead man before another day’s out. Then where are your plans, and what happens to Nan?”

  The breast of Lyons rose and fell quickly. At last he said: “I’ve made up my mind.”

  They waited with breathless interest, as if to an oracle.

  “I have some affairs that I need to arrange and I’ll have to spend some time in my room, writing. There are some things that have to be put in order. About noon tomorrow I’ll be able to move.”