The Max Brand Megapack (142 page)

His fingers, accustomed to the sway and quiver of eight-pound hammers and fourteen-pound sledges, sank through the flesh and found the windpipe. And the hands of the other grappled at his wrists, smashed into his face. Andy could have laughed at the effort. He jammed the shin of his right leg just above the knees of the other, and at once the writhing body was quiet. With all of his blood turned to ice, Andy fo
und, what he had discovered when he faced the crowd in Martindale, that his nerves did not jump and that his heart, instead of trembling, merely beat with greater pulses. Fear cleared his brain; it sent a tremendous nervous power thrilling in his wrists and elbows. All the while he was watching mercilessly for the cessation of the struggles. And when the wrenching at his forearms ceased he instantly relaxed his grip.

For a time there was a harsh sound filling the room, the rough intake of the man’s breath; he was for the time being paralyzed and incapable of any effort except the effort to fill his lungs. By the glint of the metal work about the bits Andy made out two bridles hanging on the wall near the bed. Taking them down, he worked swiftly. As soon as the fellow on the bed would have his breath he would scream. Yet the time sufficed Andy; he had his knife out, flicked the blade open, and cut off the long reins of the bridles. Then he went back to the bed and shoved the cold muzzle of his revolver into the throat of the other.

There was a tremor through the whole body of the man, and Andy knew that at that moment the senses of his victim had cleared.

He leaned close to the ear of the man and whispered: “Don’t make no loud talk, partner. Keep cool and steady. I don’t aim to hurt you unless you play the fool.”

Instantly the man answered in a similar whisper, though it was broken with panting: “Get that coat of mine out the closet. There—the door is open. You’ll find my wallet in the inside pocket and about all you can want will be in it.”

“That’s the way,” reassured Andy. “Keep your head and use sense. But it isn’t the coin I want. You’ve got a red-headed girl in this house. Where’s her room?”

His hand which held the revolver was resting on the breast of the man, and he felt the heart of the other leap. Then there was a current of curses, a swift hissing of invective. And suddenly it came ov
er Andy that since he had killed one man, as he thought, the penalty would be no greater if he killed ten. All at once the life of this prostrate fellow on the bed was nothing to him.

When he cut into that profanity he meant what he said. “Partner, I’ve got a pull on this trigger. There’s a slug in this gun just trembling to get at you. And I tell you honest, friend, I’d as soon drill you as turn around. Now tell me where that girl’s room is?”

“Anne Withero?” Only his breathing was heard for a moment. Then: “Two doors down, on this side of the hall. If you lay a hand on her I’ll live to—”

“Partner, so help me heaven, I wouldn’t touch a lock of her hair. Now lie easy while I make sure of you.”

And he promptly trussed the other in the bridle reins. Out of a pillowcase folded hard he made a gag and tied it into the mouth of the man. Then he ran his hands over the straps; they were drawn taut.

“If you make any noise,” he warned the other, “I’ll come back to find out why. S’long.”

CHAPTER 7

Every moment was bringing on the dawn more swiftly, and the eyes of Andy were growing more accustomed to the gloom in the house. He found the door of the girl’s room at once. When he entered he had only to pause a moment before he had all the details clearly in mind. Other senses than that of sight informed him in her room. There was in the gray gloom a touch of fragrance such as blows out of gardens across a road; yet here the air was perfectly quiet and chill. The dawn advanced. But all that he could ma
ke out was a faint touch of color againt the pillow—and that would be her hair. Then with astonishing clearness he saw her hand resting against her breast. Andy stood for a moment with his eyes closed, a great tenderness falling around him. The hush kept deepening, and the sense of the girl drew out to him as if a light were brightening about her.

He stepped back to the table against the wall, took the chimney from the lamp, and flicked a match along his trousers, for in that way a match would make the least noise. Yet to the hair-trigger nerves of Andy the spurt and flare of the match was like the explosion of a gun. He lighted the lamp, turned down the wick, and replaced the chimney. Then he turned as though someone had shouted behind him. He whirled as he had whirled in the hall, crouching, and he found himself looking straight into the eyes of the girl as she sat up in bed.

Truly he did not see her face at first, but only the fear in it, parting her lips and widening her eyes. She did not speak; her only movement was to drag up the coverlet of the bed and hold it against the base of her throat.

Andy drew off his hat and stepped a little closer. “Do you know me?” he asked.

He watched her as she strove to speak, but if her lips stirred they made no sound. It tortured him to see her terror, and yet he would not have had her change. This crystal pallor or a flushed joy—in one of the two she was most beautiful.

“You saw me in Martindale,” he continued. “I am the blacksmith. Do you remember?”

She nodded, still watching him with those haunted eyes.

“I saw you for the split part of a second,” said Andy, “and you stopped my heart. I’ve come to see you for two minutes; I swear I mean you no harm. Will you let me have those two minutes for talk?” Again she nodded. But he c
ould see that the terror was being tempered a little in her face. She was beginning to think, to wonder. It seemed a natural thing for Andy to go forward a pace closer to the bed, but, lest that should alarm her, it seemed also natural for him to drop upon one knee. It brought the muzzle of the revolver jarringly home against the floor.

The girl heard that sound of metal and it shook her; but it requires a very vivid imagination to fear a man upon his knees. And now that she could look directly into his face, she saw that he was only a boy, not more than two or three years older than herself. For the first time she remembered the sooty figure which had stood in the door of the blacksmith shop. The white face against the tawny smoke of the shop; that had attracted her eyes before. It was the same white face now, but subtly changed. A force exuded from him; indeed, he seemed neither young nor old.

She heard him speaking in a voice not louder than a whisper, rapid, distinct.

“When you came through the town you waked me up like a whiplash,” he was saying. “When you left I kept thinking about you. Then along came a trouble. I killed a man. A posse started after me. It’s on my heels, but I had to see you again. Do you understand?”

A ghost of color was going up her throat, staining her cheeks.

“I had to see you,” he repeated. “It’s my last chance. Tomorrow they may get me. Two hours from now they may have me salted away with lead. But before I kick out I had to have one more look at you. So I swung out of my road and came straight to this house. I came up the stairs. I went into a room down the hall and made a man tell me where to find you.”

There was a flash in the eyes of the girl like the wink of sun on a bit of quartz on a far-away hillside, but it cut into the speech of Andrew Lanni
ng. “He told you where to find me?” she asked in a voice no louder than the swift, low voice of Andy. But what a world of scorn!

“He had a gun shoved into the hollow of his throat,” said Andy. “He had to tell—two doors down the hall—”

“It was Charlie!” said the girl softly. She seemed to forget her fear. Her head raised as she looked at Andy. “The other man—the one you—why—”

“The man I killed doesn’t matter,” said Andy. “Nothing matters except that I’ve got this minute here with you.”

“But where will you go? How will you escape?”

“I’ll go to death, I guess,” said Andy quietly. “But I’ll have a grin for Satan when he lets me in. I’ve beat ’em, even if they catch me.”

The coverlet dropped from her breast; her hand was suspended with stiff fingers. There had been a sound as of someone stumbling on the stairway, the unmistakable slip of a heel and the recovery; then no more sound. Andy was on his feet. She saw his face whiten, and then there was a glitter in his eyes, and she knew that the danger was nothing to him. But Anne Withero whipped out of her bed.

“Did you hear?”

“I tied and gagged him,” said Andy, “but he’s broken loose, and now he’s raising the house on the quiet.”

For an instant they stood listening, staring at each other.

“They—they’re coming up the hall,” whispered the girl. “Listen!”

It was no louder than a whisper from without—the creak of a board. Andrew Lanning slipped to the door and turned the key in the lock. When he rejoined her in the middle of the room he gave her the key.

“Let ’em in if you want to,” he said.

But the girl caught his arm, whispering: “You can get out that window onto the top of the roof below, then a drop to the ground. But hurry before they think to guard that way!” “Anne!” called a voice suddenly fr
om the hall.

Andy threw up the window, and, turning toward the door, he laughed his defiance and his joy.

“Hurry!” she was demanding. A great blow fell on the door of her room, and at once there was shouting in the hall: “Pete, run outside and watch the window!”

“Will you go?” cried the girl desperately.

He turned toward the window. He turned back like a flash and swept her close to him.

“Do you fear me?” he whispered.

“No,” said the girl.

“Will you remember me?”

“Forever!”

“God bless you,” said Andy as he leaped through the window. She saw him take the slope of the roof with one stride; she heard the thud of his feet on the ground below. Then a yell from without, shrill and high and sharp.

When the door fell with a crash, and three men were flung into the room, Charles Merchant saw her standing in her nightgown by the open window. Her head was flung back against the wall, her eyes closed, and one hand was pressed across her lips.

“He’s out the window. Down around the other way,” cried Charles Merchant.

The stampede swept out of the room. Charles was beside her.

She knew that vaguely, and that he was speaking, but not until he touched her shoulder did she hear the words: “Anne, are you unhurt—has—for heaven’s sake speak, Anne. What’s happened?”

She reached up and put his hand away.

“Charles,” she said, “call them back. Don’t let them follow him!”

“Are you mad, dear?” he asked. “That murdering—”

He found a tigress in front of him. “If they hurt a hair of his head, Cha
rlie, I’m through with you. I’ll swear that!”

It stunned Charles Merchant. And then he went stumbling from the room.

His cow-punchers were out from the bunk house already; the guests and his father were saddling or in the saddle.

“Come back!” shouted Charles Merchant. “Don’t follow him. Come back! No guns. He’s done no harm.”

Two men came around the corner of the house, dragging a limp figure between them.

“Is this no harm?” they asked. “Look at Pete, and then talk.”

They lowered the tall, limp figure of the man in pajamas to the ground; his face was a crimson smear.

“Is he dead?” asked Charles Merchant.

“No move out of him,” they answered.

Other people, most of them on horseback, were pouring back to learn the meaning of the strange call from Charles Merchant.

“I can’t tell you what I mean,” he was saying in explanation. “But you, dad, I’ll be able to tell you. All I can say is that he mustn’t be followed—unless Pete here—”

The eyes of Pete opportunely opened. He looked hazily about him.

“Is he gone?” asked Pete.

“Yes.”

“Thank the Lord!”

“Did you see him? What’s he like?”

“About seven feet tall. I saw him jump off the roof of the house. I was right under him. Tried to get my gun on him, but he came up like a wild cat and went straight at me. Had his fist in my face before I could get my finger on the trigger. And then the earth came up and slapped me in the face.” “There he goes!” cried some one.

The sk
y was now of a brightness not far from day, and, turning east, in the direction pointed out, Charles Merchant saw a horseman ride over a hilltop, a black form against the coloring horizon. He was moving leisurely, keeping his horse at the cattle pony’s lope. Presently he dipped away out of sight.

John Merchant dropped his hand on the shoulder of his son. “What is it?” he asked.

“Heaven knows! Not I!”

“Here are more people! What’s this? A night of surprise parties?”

Six riders came through the trees, rushing their horses, and John Merchant saw Bill Dozier’s well-known, lanky form in the lead. He brought his horse from a dead run to a halt in the space of a single jump and a slide. The next moment he was demanding fresh mounts.

“Can you give ’em to me, Merchant? But what’s all this?”

“You make your little talk,” said Merchant, “and then I’ll make mine.”

“I’m after Andy Lanning. He’s left a gent more dead than alive back in Martindale, and I want him. Can you give me fresh horses for me and my boys, Merchant?”

“But the man wasn’t dead? He wasn’t dead?” cried the voice of a girl. The group opened; Bill Dozier found himself facing a bright-haired girl wrapped to the throat in a long coat, with slippers on her feet.

“Not dead and not alive,” he answered. “Just betwixt and between.”

“Thank God!” whispered the girl. “Thank God!”

There was only one man in the group who should not have heard that whispered phrase, and that man was Charles Merchant. He was standing at her side.

CHAPTER 8

It took less than five minut
es for the deputy sheriff to mount his men; he himself had the pick of the corral, a dusty roan, and, as he drew the cinch taut, he turned to find Charles Merchant at his side.

“Bill,” said the young fellow, “what sort of a man is this Lanning?”

“He’s been a covered card, partner,” said Bill Dozier. “He’s been a covered card that seemed pretty good. Now he’s in the game, and he looks like the rest of the Lannings—a good lump of daring and defiance. Why d’you ask?”