Read The Max Brand Megapack Online
Authors: Max Brand,Frederick Faust
Tags: #old west, #outlaw, #gunslinger, #Western, #cowboy
“Been an ordinary feller, and he wouldn’t of lived to talk about it afterwards, but seein’ it was Shorty, he jest goes up in the air and lands about ten yards away, and rolls over and hits his feet without once gettin’ off his stride—and then he
did
start runnin’, and he didn’t stop runnin’ nor hollerin’ till he got plumb back to the house!”
Buck Daniels sat back in his chair and guffawed at the memory. In the excitement of the tale he had quite forgotten Kate, but when he remembered her, she sat with her head craned a little to one side, her hand raised for silence, and a smile, indeed, upon her lips, but never a glance for Buck Daniels. He knew at once.
“Is it him?” he whispered. “D’you hear him?”
“Hush!” commanded two voices, and then he saw that old Joe Cumberland also was listening.
“No,” said the girl suddenly, “it was only the wind.”
As if in answer, a far, faint whistling broke upon them. She drew her hands slowly towards her breast, as if, indeed, she drew the sound in with them.
“He’s coming!” she cried. “Oh, Dad, listen! Don’t you hear?”
“I do,” answered the rancher, “but what I’m hearin’ don’t warm my blood none. Kate, if you’re wise you’ll get up and go to your room and don’t pay no heed to anything you might be hearin’ to-night.”
CHAPTER XLII
THE JOURNEY INTO NIGHT
There was no doubting the meaning of Joe Cumberland. It grew upon them with amazing swiftness, as if the black stallion were racing upon the house at a swift gallop, and the whistling rose and rang and soared in a wild outburst. Give the eagle the throat of the lark, and after he has struck down his prey in the centre of the sky and sent the ragged feathers and the slain body falling down to earth, what would be the song of the eagle rising again and dwindling out of sight in the heart of the sky? What terrible pean would he send whistling down to the dull earth far below? And such was the music that came before the coming of Dan Barry. It did not cease, as usual, at a distance, but it came closer and closer, and it swelled around them. Buck Daniels had risen from his chair and stolen to a corner of the room where not a solitary shaft of light could possibly reach him; and Kate Cumberland slipped farther into the depths of the big chair.
So that, in their utter silence, in spite of the whistling that blew in upon them, they could hear the dull ticking of the tall clock, and by a wretched freak of fate the ticking fell exactly in with the soaring rhythm of the whistle and each had a part in the deadliness of the other.
Very near upon them the music ceased abruptly. A footfall swept down the hall, a weight struck the door and cast it wide, and Black Bart glided into the room. He cast not a glance on either side. He turned his head neither to right nor to left. But he held straight on until he came to Kate Cumberland and there he stood before her.
She leaned forward.
“Bart!” she said softly and stretched out her hands to him.
A deep snarl stopped the gesture, and at the flash of the long fangs she sank into the chair. Old Joe Cumberland, with fearful labour, dragged himself to a sitting position upon the couch, and sitting up in this fashion the light fell fully upon his white face and his white hair and his white beard, so that he made a ghostly picture.
Then an outer door slammed and a light step, at an almost running pace speeded down the hall, the door was swung wide again, and Dan was before them. He seemed to bring with him the keen, fresh air of the light, and at the opening of the door the flame in the lamp jumped in its chimney, shook, and fell slowly back to its original dimness; but by that glow of light they saw that the sombrero upon Dan Barry’s head was a shapeless mass—his bandana had been torn away, leaving his throat bare—his slicker was a mass of rents and at the neck had been crumpled and torn in a thousand places as though strong teeth had worried it to a rag. Spots of mud were everywhere on his boots, even on his sombrero with its sagging brim, and on one side of his face there was a darker stain. He had ceased his whistling, indeed, but now he stood at the door and hummed as he gazed about the room. Straight to Kate Cumberland he walked, took her hands, and raised her from the chair.
He said, and there was a fibre and ring in his voice that made them catch their breaths: “There’s something outside that I’m following to-night. I don’t know what it is. It is the taste of the wind and the feel of the air and the smell of the ground. And I’ve got to be ridin’. I’m saying good-bye for a bit, Kate.”
“Dan,” she cried, “what’s happened? What’s on your face?”
“The mark of the night,” he answered. “I don’t know what else. Will you come with me, Kate?”
“For how long? Where are you going, Dan!”
“I don’t know where or how long. All I know is I’ve got to be going. Come to the window. Take the air on your face. You’ll understand!”
He drew her after him and cast up the window.
“Do you feel it in the wind,” he called to her, turning with a transfigured face. “Do you hear it?”
She could not speak but stood with her face lifted, trembling.
“Look at me!” he commanded, and turned her roughly towards him. There he stood leaning close to her, and the yellow light flickered and waned and burned again in his eyes.
He had held her hands while he stared. Now he dropped them with an exclamation.
“You’re blank,” he said angrily. “You’ve seen nothing and heard nothing.”
He turned on his heel.
“Bart!” he called, and walked from the room, and they heard the padding of his soft step down the hall and on the porch and then—silence.
Black Bart slunk to the door and into the hall, but instantly he was back and peering into the gloom of the silent place like an evil-eyed spectre.
A sharp whistle rang from outside, and Black Bart started. Still he glided on until he stood before Kate; then turned and stalked slowly towards the door, looking back after her. She did not move, and with a snarl the wolf-dog whirled again and trotted back to her. This time he caught a fold of her skirt in his teeth and pulled on it. And under the pressure she made a step.
“Kate!” called Joe Cumberland. “Are you mad, girl, to dream of goin’ out in a night like this?”
“I’m not going!” she answered hurriedly. “I’m afraid—and I won’t leave you, Dad!”
She had stopped as she spoke, but Black Bart, snarling terribly, threw his weight back, and dragged her a step forward.
“Buck,” cried old Joe Cumberland and he dragged himself up and stood tottering. “Shoot the damned wolf—for God’s sake—for my sake!”
Still the wolf-dog drew the girl in that snarling progress towards the door.
“Kate!” cried her father, and the agony in his voice made it young and sent it ringing through the room. “Will you go out to wander between heaven and hell—on a night like this?”
“I’m not going!” she answered, “I won’t leave you—but oh—Dad!—”
He opened his lips for a fresh appeal, but the chorus of the wild geese swept in upon the wind, blown loud and clear and jangling as distant bells out of tune. And Kate Cumberland buried her face in her hands and stumbled blindly out of the room and down the hall—and then they heard the wild neighing of a horse outside.
“Buck!” commanded Joe Cumberland. “He’s stealin’ my girl—my Kate—go out! call up the boys—tell’em to stop Dan from saddlin’ a horse for Kate—”
“Wait and listen!” cut in Buck Daniels. “D’you hear that?”
On the wet ground outside they heard a patter of galloping hoofs, and then a wild whistling, sweet and keen and high, came ringing back to them. It diminished rapidly with the distance.
“He’s carryin’ her off on Satan!” groaned Joe Cumberland, staggering as he tried to step forward. “Buck, call out the boys. Even Satan can’t beat my hosses when he’s carryin’ double—call ’em out—if you bring her back—”
His voice choked and he stumbled and would have fallen to his knees had not Buck Daniels sprang forward and caught him and carried him back to the couch.
“What’s happened there ain’t no man can stop,” said Buck hoarsely. “God’s work or devil’s work—I dunno—but I know there ain’t no place for a man between Dan and Kate.”
“Turn up the lights,” commanded Joe Cumberland sharply. “Got to see; I got to think. D’you hear?”
Buck Daniels ran to the big lamp and turned up the wick. At once a clear light flooded every nook of the big room and showed all its emptiness.
“Can’t you make the lamp work?” asked the old ranchman angrily. “Ain’t they any oil in it? Why, Buck, they ain’t enough light for me to see your face, hardly. But I’ll do without the light. Buck, how far will they go? Kate’s a good girl! She won’t leave me, lad!”
“She won’t,” agreed Buck Daniels. “Jest gone with Dan for a bit of a canter.”
“The devil was come back in his eyes,” muttered the old man. “God knows where he’s headin’ for! Buck, I brought him in off’n the range and made him a part of my house. I took him into my heart; and now he’s gone out again and taken everything that I love along with him. Buck, why did he go?”
“He’ll come back,” said the big cowpuncher softly.
“It’s gettin’ darker and darker,” said Joe Cumberland, “and they’s a kind of ringing in my ears. Talk louder. I don’t hear you none too well.”
“I said they was comin’ back,” said Buck Daniels.
Something like a light showed on the face of Joe Cumberland.
“Ay, lad,” he said eagerly, “I can hear Dan’s whistlin’ comin’ back—nearer and nearer. Most like he was jest playin’ a joke on me, eh, Buck?”
“Most like,” said Buck, brokenly.
“Ay, there it’s ringin’ at the door of the house! Was that a footstep on the hall?”
“It was,” said Buck. “They’s comin’ down the hall!”
But far, far away he heard the whistling of Dan Barry dying among the hills.
“You let the lamp go out,” said Joe Cumberland, “and now I can’t see nothing. Are they in the room?”
“They’re here,” said Buck Daniels, “comin’ towards you now.”
“Dan!” cried the old man, shading his eyes and peering anxiously—“no, I can’t see a thing. Can you find me, lad?”
And Buck Daniels, softening his voice as much as he could, answered. “I can find you.”
“Then gimme your hand.”
Buck Daniels slipped his own large hand into the cold fingers of the dying cattleman. An expression of surpassing joy lay on the face of Joe Cumberland.
“Whistlin’ Dan, my Dan,” he murmured faintly, “I’m kind of sleepy, but before I go to sleep, to-night, I got to tell you that I forgive you for your joke—pretendin’ to take Kate away.”
“They’s nothin’ but sleep worth while—and goin’ to sleep, holdin’ your hand, lad—”
Buck Daniels dropped upon his knees and stared into the wide, dead eyes. Through the open window a sound of whistling blew to him. It was a sweet, faint music, and being so light it seemed like a chorus of singing voices among the mountains, for it was as pure and as sharp as the starlight.
Buck Daniels lifted his head to listen, but the sound faded, and the murmur of the night-wind came between.
ALCATRAZ (1923)
CHAPTER I
CORDOVA
The west wind came over the Eagles, gathered purity from the evergreen slopes of the mountains, blew across the foothills and league wide fields, and came at length to the stallion with a touch of coolness and enchanting scents of far-off things. Just as his head went up, just as the breeze lifted mane and tail, Marianne Jordan halted her pony and drew in her breath with pleasure. For she had caught from the chestnut in the corral one flash of perfection and those far-seeing eyes called to mind the Arab belief.
Says the Sheik: “I have raised my mare from a foal, and out of love for me she will lay down her life; but when I come out to her in the morning, when I feed her and give her water, she still looks beyond me and across the desert. She is waiting for the coming of a real man, she is waiting for the coming of a true master out of the horizon!”
Marianne had known thoroughbreds since she was a child and after coming West she had become acquainted with mere “hoss-flesh,” but today for the first time she felt that the horse is not meant by nature to be the servant of man but that its speed is meant to ensure it sacred freedom. A moment later she was wondering how the thought had come to her. That glimpse of equine perfection had been an illusion built of spirit and attitude; when the head of the stallion fell she saw the daylight truth: that this was either the wreck of a young horse or the sad ruin of a fine animal now grown old. He was a ragged creature with dull eyes and pendulous lip. No comb had been among the tangles of mane and tail for an unknown period; no brush had smoothed his coat. It was once a rich red-chestnut, no doubt, but now it was sun-faded to the color of sand. He was thin. The unfleshed backbone and withers stood up painfully and she counted the ribs one by one. Yet his body was not so broken as his spirit. His drooped head gave him the appearance of searching for a spot to lie down. He seemed to have been left here by the cruelty of his owner to starve and die in the white heat of this corral—a desertion which he accepted as justice because he was useless in the world.
It affected Marianne like the resignation of a man; indeed there was more personality in the chestnut than in many human beings. Once he had been a beauty, and the perfection which first startled her had been a ghost out of his past. His head, where age or famine showed least, was still unquestionably fine. The ears were short and delicately made, the eyes well-placed, the distance to the angle of the jaw long—in brief, it was that short head of small volume and large brain space which speaks most eloquently of hot blood. As her expert eye ran over the rest of the body she sighed to think that such a creature had come to such an end. There was about him no sign of life save the twitch of his skin to shake off flies.
Certainly this could not be the horse she had been advised to see and she was about to pass on when she felt eyes watching her from the steep shadow of the shed which bordered the corral. Then she made out a dapper olive-skinned fellow sitting with his back against the wall in such a position of complete relaxation as only a Mexican is capable of assuming. He wore a short tuft of black moustache cut well away from the edge of the red lip, a moustache which oddly accentuated his youth. In body and features he was of that feminine delicacy which your large-handed Saxon dislikes, and though Marianne was by no means a stalwart, she detested the man at once. For that reason, being a lady to the tips of her slim fingers, her smile was more cordial than necessary.
“I am looking for Manuel Cordova,” she said.
“Me,” replied the Mexican, and managed to speak without removing the cigarette.
“I’m glad to know you.” she answered. “I am Marianne Jordan.”
At this, Manuel Cordova removed his cigarette, regardless of the ashes which tumbled straightway down the bell-mouthed sleeve of his jacket; for a Mexican deems it highly indecorous to pay the slightest heed to his tobacco ashes. Whether they land on chin or waistcoat they are allowed to remain until the wind carries them away.
“The pleasure is to me,” said Cordova melodiously, and made painful preparations to rise.
She gathered at once that the effort would spoil his morning and urged him to remain where he was, at which he smiled with the care of a movie star, presenting an even, white line of teeth.
Marianne went on: “Let me explain. I’ve come to the Glosterville fair to buy some brood mares for my ranch and of course the ones I want are the Coles horses. You’ve seen them?”
He nodded.
“But those horses,” she continued, checking off her points, “will not be offered for sale until after the race this afternoon. They’re all entered and they are sure to win. There’s nothing to touch them and when they breeze across the finish I imagine every ranch owner present will want to bid for them. That would put them above my reach and I can only pray that the miracle will happen—a horse may turn up to beat them. I made inquiries and I was told that the best prospect was Manuel Cordova’s Alcatraz. So I’ve come with high hopes, Señor Cordova, and I’ll appreciate it greatly if you’ll let me see your champion.”
“Look till the heart is content, señorita,” replied the Mexican, and he extended a slim, lazy hand towards the drowsing stallion.
“But,” cried the girl, “I was told of a real runner—”
She squinted critically at the faded chestnut. She had been told of a four-year-old while this gaunt animal looked fifteen at least. However, it is one thing to catch a general impression and another to read points. Marianne took heed, now, of the long slope of the shoulders, the short back, the well-let-down hocks. After all, underfeeding would dull the eye and give the ragged, lifeless coat.
“He is not much horse, eh?” purred Cordova.
But the longer she looked the more she saw. The very leanness of Alcatraz made it easier to trace his running-muscles; she estimated, too, the ample girth at the cinches where size means wind.
“And that’s Alcatraz?” she murmured.
“That is all,” said the pleasant Cordova.
“May I go into the corral and look him over at close range? I never feel that I know a horse till I get my hands on it.”
She was about to dismount when she saw that the Mexican was hesitating and she settled back in the saddle, flushed with displeasure.
“No,” said Cordova, “that would not be good. You will see!”
He smiled again and rising, he sauntered to the fence and turned about with his shoulders resting against the upper bar, his back to the stallion. As he did so, Alcatraz put forward his ears, which, in connection with the dullness of his eyes, gave him a peculiarly foolish look.
“You will see a thing, señorita!” the Mexican was chuckling.
It came without warning. Alcatraz turned with the speed of a whiplash curling and drove straight at the place where his master leaned. Marianne’s cry of alarm was not needed. Cordova had already started, but even so he barely escaped. The chestnut on braced legs skidded to the fence, his teeth snapping short inches from the back of his master. His failure maddened Alcatraz. He reminded Marianne of the antics of a cat when in her play with the mouse she tosses her victim a little too far away and wheels to find her prospective meal disappearing down a hole. In exactly similar wise the stallion went around the corral in a whirl of dust, rearing, lashing out with hind legs and striking with fore, catching imaginary things in his teeth and shaking them to pieces. When the fury diminished he began to glide up and down the fence, and there was something so feline in the grace of those long steps and the intentness with which the brute watched Cordova that the girl remembered a new-brought tiger in the zoo. Also, rage had poured him full of such strength that through the dust cloud she caught again glimpses of that first perfection.
He came at last to a stop, but he faced his owner with a look of steady hate. The latter returned the gaze with interest, stroking his face and snarling: “Once more, red devil, eh? Once more you miss? Bah! But I, I shall not miss!”
It was not as one will talk to a dumb beast, for there was no mistaking the vicious earnestness of Cordova, and now the girl made out that he was caressing a long, white scar which ran from his temple across the cheekbone. Marianne glanced away, embarrassed, as people are when another reveals a dark and hidden portion of his character.
“You see?” said Cordova, “you would not be happy in the corral with him, eh?”
He rolled a cigarette with smiling lips as he spoke, but all the time his black eyes burned at the chestnut. He seemed to Marianne half child and half old man, and both parts of him were evil now that she could guess the whole story. Cordova campaigned through the country, racing his horse at fairs or for side bets. For two reasons he kept the animal systematically undernourished: one was that he was thereby able to get better odds; the other was that only on a weakened Alcatraz would he trust himself. At this she did not wonder for never had she seen such almost human viciousness of temper in a dumb beast.
“As for running, señorita,” continued Cordova, “sometimes he does very well—yes, very well. But when he is dull the spurs are nothing to him.”
He indicated a criss-crossing of scars on the flank of the stallion and Marianne, biting her lips, realized that she must leave at once if she wished to avoid showing her contempt, and her anger.
She was a mile down the road and entering the main street of Glosterville before her temper cooled. She decided that it was best to forget both Alcatraz and his master: they were equally matched in devilishness. Her last hope of seeing the mares beaten was gone, and with it all chance of buying them at a reasonable figure; for no matter what the potentialities of Alcatraz in his present starved condition he could not compare with the bays. She thought of Lady Mary with the sunlight rippling over her shoulder muscles. Certainly Alcatraz would never come within whisking distance of her tail!
CHAPTER II
THE COMING OF DAVID
Having reached this conclusion, the logical thing, of course, was for Marianne to pack and go without waiting to see the race or hear the bidding for the Coles horses; but she could not leave. Hope is as blind as love. She had left the ranch saying to her father and to the foreman, Lew Hervey: “The bank account is shrinking, but ideals are worth more than facts and I
shall
improve the horses on this place.” It was a rather too philosophical speech for one of her years, but Oliver Jordan had merely shrugged his shoulders and rolled another cigarette; the crushed leg which, for the past three years, had made him a cripple, had taught him patience.
Only the foreman had ventured to smile openly. It was no secret that Lew Hervey disliked the girl heartily. The fall of the horse which made Jordan a semi-invalid, killed his ambition and self-reliance at the same instant. Not only was it impossible for him to ride since the accident, but the freeswinging self-confidence which had made him prosperous disappeared at the same time; his very thoughts walked slowly on foot since his fall. Hervey gathered the reins of the ranch affairs more and more into his own hands and had grown to an almost independent power when Marianne came home from school. Having studied music and modern languages, who could have suspected in Marianne either the desire or the will to manage a ranch, but to Marianne the necessity for following the course she took was as plain as the palm of an open hand. The big estate, once such a money-maker, was now losing. Her father had lost his grip and could not manage his own affairs, but who had ever heard of a hired man being called to run the Jordan business as long as there was a Jordan alive? She, Marianne, was very much alive. She came West and took the ranch in hand.
Her father smiled and gave her whatever authority she required; in a week the estate was hers to control. But for all her determination and confidence, she knew that she could not master cattle-raising in a few weeks. She was unfemininely willing to take advice. She even hunted for it, and though her father refused to enter into the thing even with suggestions, a little help from Hervey plus her indomitable energy might have made her attempt a success.
Hervey, however, was by no means willing to help. In fact, he was profoundly disgruntled. He had found himself, beyond all expectation, in a position almost as absolute and dignified as that of a real owner with not the slightest interference from Jordan, when on a sudden the arrival of this pretty little dark-eyed girl submerged him again in his old role of the hired man. He took what Marianne considered a sneaking revenge. He entered at once upon a career of the most perfect subordination. No fault could be found with his work. He executed every commission with scrupulous care. But when his advice was asked he became a sphinx. “Some folks say one way and some another. Speaking personal, I dunno, Miss Jordan. You just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
This attitude irritated her so that she was several times on the verge of discharging him, but how could she turn out so old an employee and one so painstaking in the duties assigned to him? Many a day she prayed for “a new foreman or night,” but Hervey kept his job, and in spite of her best efforts, affairs went from bad to worse and the more desperately she struggled the more hopelessly she was lost. This affair of the horses was typical. No doubt the saddle stock were in sad need of improved blood but this was hardly the moment to undertake such an expenditure. Having once suggested the move, the quiet smiles of Hervey had spurred her on. She knew the meaning of those smiles. He was waiting till she should exhaust even the immense tolerance of her father; when she fell he would swing again into the saddle of control. Yet she would go on and buy the mares if she could. Hers was one of those militant spirits which, once committed, fights to the end along every line. And indeed, if she ever contemplated surrender, if she were more than once on the verge of giving way to the tears of broken spirit, the vague, uninterested eyes of her father and the overwise smiles of Hervey were whips which sent her back into the battle.
But today, when she regained her room in the hotel, she walked up and down with the feeling that she was struggling against manifest destiny. And in a rare burst of self-pity, she paused in front of the window, gritting her teeth to restrain a flood of tears.