The Max Brand Megapack (302 page)

The gambler nodded, and to show that he could be as unceremonious as his host, sat down without further words. He immediately felt awkward, for David remained standing. He broke a morsel from the loaf of bread, which was yet the only food on the table, and turned to the East with a solemn face.

“Out of His hands from whom I take this food,” said the master—“into His hands I give myself.”

He sat down in turn, and Isaac came instantly with the breakfast. It was an astonishing menu to one accustomed to toast and coffee for the morning meal. On a great wooden platter which occupied half the surface of the table, Isaac put down two chickens, roasted brown. A horn-handled hunting knife, razor sharp, was the only implement at each place, and fingers must serve as forks. To David that was a small impediment. Under the deft edge of his knife the breast of one chicken divided rapidly; he ate the white slices like bread. Indeed, the example was easy to follow; the mountain air had given him a vigorous appetite, and when Connor next looked up it was at the sound of glass tinkling. He saw Isaac holding toward the master a bucket of water in which a bottle was immersed almost to the cork; David tried the temperature of the water with his fingers with a critical air, and then nodded to Isaac, who instantly drew the cork. A moment later red wine was trickling into Connor’s cup. He viewed it with grateful astonishment, but David, poising his cup, looked across at his guest with a puzzled air.

“In the old days,” he said gravely, “when my masters drank they spoke to one another in a kindly fashion. It is now five years since a man has sat at my table, and I am moved to say this to you, Benjamin: it is pleasant to speak to another not as a master who must be obeyed, but as an equal who may be answered, and this is my wish, that if I have doubts of Benjamin, and unfriendly thoughts, they may disappear with the wine we drink.”

“Thank you,” said Connor, and a thrill went through him as he met the eye of David. “That wish is my wish also—and long life to you, David.”

There was a glint of pleasure in the face of David, and they drank together.

“By Heaven,” cried Connor, putting down the cup, “it is Médoc! It is Château Lafite, upon my life!”

He tasted it again.

“And the vintage of ’96! Is that true?”

David shook his head.

“I have never heard of Médoc or Château Lafite.”

“At least,” said Connor, raising his cup and breathing the delicate bouquet, “this wine is Bordeaux you imported from France? The grapes which made this never grew outside of the Gironde!”

But David smiled.

“In the north of the Garden,” he said, “there are some low rolling hills, Benjamin; and there the grapes grow from which we make this wine.”

Connor tasted the claret again. His respect for David had suddenly mounted; the hermit seemed nearer to him.

“You grew these grapes in your valley?” he repeated softly.

“This very bottle we are drinking,” said David, warming to the talk. “I remember when the grapes of this vintage were picked; I was a boy, then.”

“I believe it,” answered Connor solemnly, and he raised the cup with a reverent hand, so that the sun filtered into the red and filled the liquid with dancing points of light.

“It is a full twenty years old.”

“It is twenty-five years old,” said David calmly, “and this is the best vintage in ten years.” He sighed. “It is now in its perfect prime and next year it will not be the same. You shall help me finish the stock, Benjamin.”

“You need not urge me,” smiled Connor.

He shook his head again.

“But that is one wine I could have vowed I knew—Médoc. At least, I can tell you the soil it grows in.”

The brows of the host raised; he began to listen intently.

“It is a mixture of gravel, quartz and sand,” continued Connor.

“True!” exclaimed David, and looked at his guest with new eyes.

“And two feet underneath there is a stone for subsoil which is a sort of sand or fine gravel cemented together.”

David struck his hands together, frankly delighted.

“This is marvelous,” he said, “I would say you have seen the hills.”

“I paid a price for what I know,” said Connor rather gloomily. “But north of Bordeaux in France there is a strip of land called the Médoc—the finest wine soil in the world, and there I learned what claret may be—there I tasted Château Lafite and Château Datour. They are both grown in the commune of Pauillac.”

“France?” echoed David, with the misty eyes of one who speaks of a lost world. “Ah, you have traveled?”

“Wherever fine horses race,” said Connor, and turned back to the chicken.

“Think,” said David suddenly, “for five years I have lived in silence. There have been voices about me, but never mind; and now you here, and already you have taken me at a step halfway around the world.

“Ah, Benjamin, it is possible for an emptiness to be in a manlike hunger, you understand, and yet different—and nothing but a human voice can fill the space.”

“Have you no wish to leave your valley for a little while and see the world?” said Connor, carelessly.

He watched gloomily, while an expression of strong distaste grew on the face of David. He was still frowning when he answered:

“We will not speak of it again.”

He jerked his head up and cleared away his frown with an effort.

“To speak with one man in the Garden—that is one thing,” he went on, “but to hear the voices of two jabbering and gibbering together—grinning like mindless creatures—throwing their hands out to help their words, as poor Joseph does—bah, it is like drinking new wine; it makes one sick. It made me so five times.”

“Five times?” said Connor. “You have traveled a good deal, then?”

“Too much,” sighed David. “And each time I returned from Parkin Crossing I have cared less for what lies outside the valley.”

“Parkin Crossing?”

“I have been told that there are five hundred people in the city,” said David, pronouncing the number slowly. “But when I was there, I was never able to count more than fifty, I believe.”

Connor found it necessary to cough.

“And each time you have left the valley you have gone no farther than Parkin Crossing?” he asked mildly, his spirits rising.

“And is not that far enough?” replied the master, frowning. “It is a ride between dawn and dark.”

“What is that in miles?”

“A hundred and thirty miles,” said David, “or thereabout.”

Connor closed his eyes twice and then: “You rode that distance between dawn and dark?”

“Yes.”

“Over these mountains most of the way?” he continued gently.

“About half the distance,” answered David.

“And how long”—queried Connor hoarsely—“how long before your horse was able to make the trip back after you had ridden a hundred and thirty miles in twelve hours?”

“The next day,” said David, “I always return.”

“In the same time?”

“In the same time,” said David.

To doubt that simple voice was impossible. But Connor knew horses, and his credence was strained to the breaking point.

“I should like very much,” he said, “to see a horse that had covered two hundred and sixty miles within forty-eight hours.”

“Thirty-six,” corrected David.

Connor swallowed.

“Thirty-six,” he murmured faintly.

“I shall send for him,” said the master, and struck the little gong which stood on one side of the table. Isaac came hurrying with that light step which made Connor forget his age.

“Bring Glani,” said David.

Isaac hurried across the patio, and David continued talking to his guest.

“Glani is not friendly; but you can see him from a distance.”

“And yet,” said Connor, “the other horses in the Garden seem as friendly as pet dogs. Is Glani naturally vicious?”

“His is of other blood,” replied David. “He is the blood of the great mare Rustir, and all in her line are meant for one man only. He is more proud than all the rest.”

He leaned back in his chair and his face, naturally stern, grew tender.

“Since he was foaled no hand has touched him except mine; no other has ridden him, groomed him, fed him.”

“I’ll be glad to see him,” said Connor quietly. “For I have never yet found a horse which would not come to my hand.”

As he spoke, he looked straight into the eyes of David, with an effort, and at the same time took from the pocket of his coat a little bulbous root which was always with him. A Viennese who came from a life half spent in the Orient had given him a small box of those herbs as a priceless present. For the secret was that when the root was rubbed over the hands it left a faint odor on the skin, like freshly cut apples; and to a horse that perfume was irresistible. They seemed to find in it a picture of sweet clover, blossoming, and clean oats finely headed; yet to the nostrils of a man the scent was barely perceptible. Under cover of the table the gambler rubbed his hands swiftly with the little root and dropped it back into his pocket. That was the secret of the power over Abra which had astonished the two old men at the gate. A hundred times, in stable and paddock, Connor had gone up to the most intractable race horses and looked them over at close hand, at his leisure. The master seemed in nowise disturbed by the last remark of Connor.

“That is true of old Abraham, also,” he said. “There was never a colt foaled in the valley which Abraham had not been able to call away from its mother; he can read the souls of them all with a touch of his withered hands. Yes, I have seen that twenty times. But with Glani it is different. He is as proud as a man; he is fierce as a wolf; and Abraham himself cannot touch the neck of my horse. Look!”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Under the arch of the entrance
Connor saw a gray stallion, naked of halter or rope, with his head raised. From the shadow he came shining into the sunlight; the wind raised his mane and tail in ripples of silver. Ben Connor rose slowly from his chair. Horses were religion to him; he felt now that he had stepped into the inner shrine.

When he was able to speak he turned slowly toward David. “Sir,” he said hoarsely, “that is the greatest horse ever bred.”

It was far more than a word of praise; it was a confession of faith which surrounded the moment and the stallion with solemnity, and David flushed like a proud boy.

“There he stands,” he said. “Now make him come to your hand.”

It recalled Connor to his senses, that challenge, and feeling that his mind had been snatched away from him for a moment, almost that he had been betrayed, he looked at David with a pale face.

“He is too far away,” he said. “Bring him closer.”

There was one of those pauses which often come before crises, and Connor knew that by the outcome of this test he would be judged either a man or a cheap boaster.

“I shall do this thing,” said the master of the Garden of Eden. “If you bring Glani to your hand I shall give him to you to ride while you stay in the valley. Listen! No other man had so much as laid a hand on the withers of Glani, but if you can make him come to you of his own free will—”

“No,” said Connor calmly. “I shall make him come because my will is stronger than his.”

“Impossible!” burst out David.

He controlled himself and looked at Connor with an almost wistful defiance.

“I hold to this,” he said. “If you can bring Glani to your hand, he is yours while you stay in the Garden—for my part, I shall find another mount.”

Connor slipped his right hand into his pocket and crushed the little root against the palm.

“Come hither, Glani,” commanded the master. The stallion came up behind David’s chair, looking fearlessly at the stranger.

“Now,” said David with scorn. “This is your time.”

“I accept it,” replied Connor.

He drew his hand from his pocket, and leaning over the table, he looked straight into the eye of the stallion. But in reality, it was only to bring that right hand closer; the wind was stirring behind him, and he knew that it wafted the scent of the mysterious root straight to Glani.

“That is impossible,” said David, following the glance of Connor with a frown. “A horse has no reasoning brain. Silence cannot make him come to you.”

“However,” said Connor carelessly, “I shall not speak.”

The master set his teeth over unuttered words, and glancing up to reassure himself, his face altered swiftly, and he whispered:

“Now, you four dead masters, bear witness to this marvel! Glani feels the influence!”

For the head of Glani had raised as he scented the wind. Then he circled the table and came straight toward Connor. Within a pace, the scent of strange humanity must have drowned the perfume of the root; he sprang away, catlike and snorted his suspicion.

David heaved a great sigh of relief.

“You fail!” he cried, and snatching up a bottle of wine, he poured out a cup. “Brave Glani! I drink this in your honor!”

Every muscle in David’s strong body was quivering, as though he were throwing all the effort of his will on the side of the stallion.

“You think I have failed?” asked Connor softly.

“Admit it,” said David.

His flush was gone and he was paler than Connor now; he seemed to desire with all his might that the test should end; there was a fiber of entreaty in his voice.

“Admit it, Benjamin, as I admit your strange power.”

“I have hardly begun. Give me quiet.”

David flung himself into his chair, his attention jerking from Glani to Connor and back. It was at this critical moment that a faint breeze puffed across the patio, carrying the imperceptible fragrance of the root straight to Glani. Connor watched the stallion prick his ears, and he blessed the quaint old Viennese with all his heart.

The first approach of Glani had been in the nature of a feint, but now that he was sure, he went with all the directness of unspoiled courage straight to the stranger. He lowered the beautiful head and thrust out his nose until it touched the hand of Connor. The gambler saw David shudder.

“You have conquered,” he said, forcing out the words.

“Take Glani; to me he is now a small thing. He is yours while you stay in the Garden. Afterward I shall give him to one of my servants.”