Red Fire

by Max Brand

  In the meantime, to complete their anger, reporters began to ride in from various southwest cities. They wanted to have pictures of camera and pen to describe the range where the Negro was lurking. Kiever County snarled like a savage dog and quivered with rage. Then they read the stories of the reporters and grew more furious than ever. Bobbie was called a dusky-skinned Hannibal who now was showing the destructive talents of his race by setting at naught the efforts of the great odds that worked day and night against him. It was pointed out that he was a Negro with a sense of humor, and that he was not a sheer murderer, but really preferred to defend himself and leave his antagonists alive—so that he might have all the more to play with.

  Such was the tone in which these articles were written. Kiever County, finding itself mentioned as giving “amusement” to a single fugitive by its combined effort to capture him, writhed in silence, and in silence it put forth fresh efforts. But still Bobbie was not taken. He was a little lean of face and a little grim of eye, but compared with his old self he was as one who has awakened from a deep sleep. He was finding himself, and what he found was all new to him.

  It was now estimated that three hundred manhunters labored to find the trail of the Negro and run him down. There were packs of dogs of all descriptions. They were worked day and night. Even so, Bobbie was not caught, and even so Bobbie continued to descend upon the besiegers and prey upon them for his livelihood. All of this was noted by the merciless pens of the newspaper reporters. They talked with great and delicate sarcasm about the charity of the posses of the Kiever men, and they dilated upon the truly Christian spirit that, when men had been smitten, made them turn the other cheek to the smiter. But a new danger was drawing close to Bobbie.

  VIII

  When Tom Farnsworth left Deborah, his head was muddled, indeed. He had gone to see her with a high heart full of love for her. He left with his love cut off and destroyed utterly at the root. All of his hopes of happiness had been exchanged for a grisly threat that compromised his honor forever and even his very life. As he stumbled back to his horse, after he left the house, he still could not quite understand how she had tricked him into confessing the truth to her. But now he could very well understand that he had made his case far blacker than it really was by his delay. If he had come before the people of the town the very night of the shooting and told them what had happened, they might have believed him. Certainly Jack had forced the fight more than he had. Jack himself would admit it. But now Jack was following a line that he thought would be most helpful to his rival, and with a mistaken sense of honor he was continuing to let Bobbie shoulder the blame he had taken up. That was not all. Jack was now fallen into a delirium again, and he well might die before he could awaken. In that case, either Bobbie must be killed before Tom could help Bobbie, or else, failing this, the girl would accuse him and damn him.

  Such was the problem Tom Farnsworth now had to work out, and after half an hour of thinking and gritting of teeth he made up his mind that there was nothing for it. He had to find Bobbie and kill him.

  To do young Farnsworth justice, his head spun, and he grew sick when he thought of betraying that long-suffering servant. Yet, being by nature an opportunist, he balanced matters back and forth and argued in the following manner: If Bobbie had not foolishly ridden away that night, I would have told the truth about the affair. As it happened, he rode away, took the blame, kept me from confessing, and now it is so late that, if I confess, I shall not be believed. Bobbie, in short, is at the root of all the mischief. And he has himself brought this matter to such a point that now I have to procure his death and make it seem as though a third person dropped him. This is all very difficult and close work, and I shall have to be more adroit than I have ever been before.

  This may seem cold-blooded reasoning, and in fact it was, but Tom was working for his life, and on such occasions even generous men with warm hearts are apt to change a little from their better natures. He went home, surprised himself by being able to sleep well, rose early the next morning, took a good horse, and started out on his journey. He went through Daggett and let his errand be known. He had gone to find his truant servant and learn what had happened to the usually sober brain of Bobbie. He had to make that announcement in Daggett in the hope that the tidings would roll before him and come to Bobbie among the Kiever Mountains, via some of the guards whom he was now harrying daily with his descents from the fastnesses of the peaks. When Bobbie learned of it, he would instantly do his best to throw himself into the path of his coming master.

  Before Tom left, he heard other news. Just as he had dreaded, young Jack Pattison had grown worse almost immediately after his interview with Tom. The sweet sleep into which he had fallen had been the result, apparently, of having wrought nerves that now had snapped. The sleep changed to a nightmare. Jack Pattison wakened in a shrieking delirium, begging for Deborah, and Deborah went to him. She quieted him, but she could not bring him back to reason. She had spent the rest of the night leaning over his bed, and on this day she and the doctor and two nurses were fighting gallantly to save the youngster from death, but it seemed to be a losing fight.

  It means that I must hurry, said Tom to himself. If Bobbie and Pattison are both disposed of, the girl will tell herself that enough men have died on account of this affair. But if Pattison dies, and Bobbie is still at large, she’ll speak out, and then I’m a ruined man.

  He rode furiously forward after that. On the second day he saw the Kiever Mountains, drawing out of the horizon like great blue-gray clouds. That evening he reached the mountains themselves, pressed into them until he found a camping place, and then, having unsaddled his horse, he sat down, lit a cigarette, and waited. He was as certain that Bobbie would come to him at once as he was certain that an eagle can see what a man cannot. He looked forward to that meeting with a disagreeable shudder. He decided, finally, that he would have to kill Bobbie from in front. That meant that he would have to murder his man while looking him in the eye, and even the iron nerves of Tom Farnsworth trembled at such a prospect. He must shoot Bobbie from in front. Probably he had better shoot through the head. Then it could be explained as an accident that had taken place while Bobbie himself was handling a gun.

  In the midst of these black meditations he was aware of something stirring in the black of the night behind him. He turned sharply, and there was Bobbie. But how changed! He saw first a streak of red where a huge red silk bandanna was tied like a turban around the head of the Negro. Beneath that red were the gleam of eyes and the white glimmer of teeth, as Bobbie grinned delightedly down at his visitor. He wore a canvas jacket without sleeves, and his trousers had been cut off at the knees. On his feet were rudely made moccasins. About his waist was no cartridge belt—there was only the holster for the Colt, dangling from his right hip, and there was no rifle behind his shoulder. The Colt was his only weapon, and the whole outfit of the Negro seemed invented and adapted for great activity in flight rather than power to stand and give battle. But the appearance of Bobbie was not the only wild thing about him. He danced like a wild man when he saw his master and broke into frantic protestations of delight. That very morning he had come down in the gray of the dawn upon a camp, taken a supply of coffee that he needed, and carried away with him a young cowpuncher from whom he had extracted all manner of information about the number of his assailants, the plans of the sheriff, and, above all, the tidings that his master, Tom Farnsworth, was on the way to take a hand in this matter and bring the fugitive to justice.

  As he reached this point in his narrative, Bobbie rocked back and forth in his place in an ecstasy of silent mirth. He made Tom Farnsworth think of a big, sleek-muscled panther.

  “Where’s your horse?” he asked the big Negro.

  “In the hollow,” said the other.

  “Your rifle?”

  “I don’t use one.”

  “Nor a coat?”

  “I travel light. I can’t fight three hundred men, but I can run away fro
m them. A rifle is heavy. I carry six shots in a revolver and a few more in a pocket. That’s enough. I only fire one a day at game and another one for practice. And so far I haven’t had to use guns on men very often.”

  “Bobbie, you seem happy.”

  “As a king, sir.”

  “You haven’t lost much weight or sleep, I see.”

  “Not a particle.”

  He has gone back to Nature, Farnsworth thought to himself. The rascal has reverted to his old and true type. He has turned from a perfect servant into a perfect devil. And why, he added to himself, should I keep my scruples when I’m dealing with this wild man? He said aloud: “Let me have that gun.”

  He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw that Bobbie hesitated nervously before he surrendered the required weapon, as though a slight suspicion of what his master intended may have flashed across his mind. But he shook his head, shrugged the fear away, and passed over the Colt.

  Now, Farnsworth thought, I have him in my hand . . . I have only to press this trigger . . . He looked up squarely and suddenly into the man’s face. “Bobbie,” he said, “do you know what’s in my mind?”

  The mirth and the recklessness had faded out of the face of Bobbie. He stood very stiffly erect with his arms folded high on his breast. “I’ve a sort of an idea, sir,” said Bobbie dryly.

  “Your idea is right, let me tell you.”

  “I hope not, sir.”

  “Have you ever worked for me simply because you thought I was a good man, Bobbie?”

  “Good, sir?” echoed Bobbie, rolling his eyes as the thought struck him for the first time.

  “No,” concluded the master, “of course, you haven’t. You’ve always known in your heart of hearts that I was a rascal. Yes, you’ve always known that, Bobbie, and the reason you’ve kept true to me and my needs is simply that you’d had the old example stuffed down your throat by your granddaddy. Am I right?”

  “Maybe you are, sir.”

  He saw the hand of Bobbie slide down. The thumb hooked into his belt. The fingers disappeared into the side pocket, and into the mind of Tom flashed understanding. The Negro had curled his fingers around the handle of the hunting knife, and, if he fought for his life, it would be by throwing that heavy and deadly weapon at Tom.

  “I know,” said Tom, “a knife is good for close work like this, but it’s hardly fast enough. A bullet beats it from the start so far that it really hasn’t a man-size chance. You understand me? Here I am with your gun in one hand and my own”—drawing it—“in the other. I think that I have you fairly at my mercy, Bobbie. Let me tell you, in the first place, why it’s necessary for me to do this. It isn’t a matter of careless wish. I’d rather lose a leg than lose you, Bobbie. But matters have come to such a point that I have to lose you or myself. I’m very fond of you . . . far fonder than you really dream. But, much as I like you, I confess that I prefer my own life. Matters have come to such a point, Bobbie, that I have to choose between us, and my choice is myself. If you die, all is well. If I die, there will be one less rascal in the world. As for the shabby treatment I’m giving you . . . well, I’ll answer for that in hell, where I suppose I’m tolerably certain to pull up. So, to make an end of the talking . . . Bobbie, good-bye. If you’ve got a prayer to say, say it, because this is the end of your time.”

  The Negro merely stiffened in his place. “Shoot straight, Mister Tom,” he said quietly. “Don’t let that gun pull to the right, the way you mostly always do.”

  “Curse you!” gasped Tom Farnsworth.

  The bright, black eyes glittered back at him as steadily as the light along the shining barrel of his Colt. So, with an oath, the white man threw the revolver down on the ground at Bobbie’s feet.

  “I can’t do it,” said Tom.

  “Thank God!” cried the big Negro. “I knew you couldn’t, sir. I . . .” He made as though to throw himself at the feet of Tom in an excess of his joy, but the white man repulsed him with a sharp word.

  “I’m not through. I’ve simply changed my mind about you, Bobbie. I find that I haven’t as steady a nerve as I thought I had. I can’t murder you in cold blood. But I’ll fight you with an equal chance between us.”

  The Negro frowned. “Mister Tom, you’ve seen me use a gun.”

  “I’ve seen you chip twigs off trees and knock the heads off ground squirrels at thirty yards . . . I’ve seen you do all the tricks, Bobbie, but there is no trick in this. And I’ll put myself against yourself in this manner of fight. There’s your gun at your feet. Pick it up!”

  Bobbie stooped, grasped the revolver, and stood straight again.

  “Are you ready, Bobbie?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir. Damn me . . . curse me. I’m trying to steal your life, Bobbie. I’m trying to take that on top of twenty years of slavish service for me. I’m trying to take your life after I’ve beaten you before strangers . . . like a dog. Remember these things. Now, Bobbie, are you ready?”

  “Ready, sir.”

  The white man scowled, then he shrugged his shoulders. “Shoot to kill, Bobbie,” he warned the other. “If you only wing me, I’ll keep blazing away until the last spark is out in me. Now, Bobbie, stoop with me and put your gun down at your feet once more. So! Now we stand once more and consider what we have to do. I begin to count ten. When I hit the last count, we dive for our Colts and open fire. You understand? Is that fair to you as it is to me?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bobbie.

  “For pity’s sake, man,” broke out Tom, “is there no malice in you? Have you nothing to say about this life of yours, which I’m trying to waste after you freely put it in such danger for me, Bobbie?”

  “I’ve nothing to say, sir.”

  The master swore to himself, first very softly, then very loudly, as though he needed all that violence to waken his own courage and bring it hotly up to the point of swift action. Then he began to count. He tolled out the numbers, as regularly as a bell strikes. He reached nine and trembled with eagerness. He reached ten, snatched up his Colt with one frantically swift gesture, and fired without lifting his hand from the ground. His finger was already closing on the trigger when he saw that Bobbie had not stirred in his place. His arms were still folded stiffly and high across his chest, and he had not stooped an inch toward the gun at his feet. Too late Tom strove to check that curling of his finger. But his whole hand had gripped at gun butt and trigger, and he groaned as the revolver exploded.

  “I’ve missed!” cried Tom, hurling his gun far away from him. “Thank heaven, I missed you, Bobbie!”

  For Bobbie had not stirred in his place. “A mighty neat shot, sir,” said Bobbie. “But the head is the thing to aim at, even with a snap shot. The body will do only once in a while.” He pushed open his canvas jacket and thrust his hand into his bosom. He brought it out again with the fingers stained crimson. “This time,” said Bobbie, “I think that it will do very nicely.”

  Then he crumpled, as though the force of the bullet had torn into him at that moment. The arms of Tom caught at him, but that huge bulk of solid bone and muscle glided through his hands like an avalanche and came to rest heavily against the earth. The canvas jacket was ripped away. The jet-black chest was exposed, arched like a noble dome, and splashed with the thick red.

  The white man beat his hands together and then dashed them against his face. He tore off his shirt and started to tear it into strips for bandages. Then he stopped to take the big head of the Negro in his arms and groan: “Bobbie, Bobbie, I’ve killed you! It was the devil, Bobbie, not I.”

  “Steady,” whispered a faint voice from the ground. “Tell them that you were cleaning your own gun . . . they won’t care, except that I belonged to you, and they’ll wonder why you threw me away.”

  IX

  “No talk,” breathed Tom Farnsworth. “Save your strength . . . save your strength, Bobbie.”

  “Yes, sir,” murmured the Negro.

  Farnsworth was working l
ike mad, twisting the bandages into place, stripping his body for that purpose, shivering not with the cold of the mountain night but with the icy fears that were whispering at his shoulder. For, as he worked, he was looking deep, deep into the truth about himself and the truth about the man he’d shot. What if Bobbie died? At that thought a thousand pictures leaped across his mind. There was time for many memories in every fraction of a second. And every recollection was of Bobbie in some other day, and in each one of those other days Bobbie was serving him more faithfully than any brother, more humbly than any slave.

  He finished the bandaging. He rushed down the slope to the brink of the little spring and brought back a canteen of water. When he returned, the eyes of the Negro were closed, and the heart of Tom Farnsworth sank in him. But he recalled that men in death open their eyes for the last time. It was only a fainting fit. So he poured some water down the throat of Bobbie and had the sad gratification of hearing Bobbie groan and seeing his eyelids flicker.

  Then he was up on his feet again and working frantically. There was a growth of young pine saplings near the spring. He fell upon them with his hatchet, which he carried behind his saddle, and felled them one and all. With some he built a roaring fire, partly to keep away the cold and partly because he felt that he needed light and warmth to fight away death, which had stolen close to his servant in the darkness. With the tips and the needles of the saplings he constructed a deep and soft bed, over which he spread his tarpaulin and then fell to the labor of moving the big, wounded man to this new position of comfort. There followed five minutes of agony of effort, for Tom was not strong, and the inert bulk of Bobbie almost baffled all of his pulling and straining. There could be no roughness. All must be done smoothly, easily. When it was accomplished, he looked anxiously at the bandage, fearful lest it might have shown a new spurting of blood. But the bandage showed only the one dark spot.