 CHAPTER XXII Drew's Smiles When he saw Bard scramble up the opposite bank, he knew that the game was lost, and all the tables reversed, for the Easterner was a full two hours closer to the home of Drew than he was, with the necessary detour up to the Ford. The Easterner might be delayed by the unknown country for a time, but not very long. He was sure to meet someone who would point the way. It was then that Nash drew his gun and shot the piebald Mustang. The next instant he was racing straight up the river toward the Ford. The Rhone was not spared this day, for there were many chances that Bard might secure a fresh mount to speed him on the way to the Drew Ranch, and now it was all important that the big grey man be warned, for there was danger in that meeting as Nash was beginning to feel. By noon he reached the house and went straight to the owner, a desperate figure, spattered with mud to the eyes, a three days' growth of whiskers blackening in his face, and that face gaunt with the long hard writing. He found the improturbable Drew deep in a book in his office. While he was drawing breath, the rancher examined him with a faint smile. I thought this would be the end of it, he announced. The devil in all hell plays on the side of Bard, answered the foreman. I had him safe, almost tied hand and foot. He got away. Got away? Shot the rope in two. The other placed a bookmark, closed the volume, and looked up with utmost serenity. Try again, he said quietly. Take half a dozen men with you, surprise him in the night. Surprise a wolf, growled Nash? It's just the same. The shaggy eyebrows stirred. How far is he away? Two, three miles. Maybe half a dozen. I don't know. He'll be here before night. The big man changed color and gripped the edge of the desk. Nash never dreamed that it would be possible to so stir him. Coming here? Yes. Nash, you infernal fool, did you let him know where you were taking him? No. He was already on his way here. Once more Drew winced. He rose now and straught across the room and back. From the wall the heavy echo of his footfall came sharply back. And he paused in front of Nash, looming above his foreman like some primitive monster, or as the Grecian heroes loomed above the rank and file at the Siege of Troy. He was like a relic of some earlier period, when bigger men were needed for a greater physical labor. What does he want? I don't know. Says he wants to ask for the right of hunting on your old place, on the other side of the ridge, which I'd tell a man it's just a lie. He knows he can hunt there if he wants. Does he know me? Just your name? Did he ask many questions about me? Wanted to know what you looked like? And you told him? A lot of things, said you were big and grey, and I told him the story about you and John Bard. Drew slumped into a chair and ground the knuckles of his right hand across his forehead. The white marks remained as he looked up again. What was that? How you happened to marry Joan Piatto, and how Bard left the country? Is that all? Is there any more, sir? The other stared into the distance, overlooking the question. Tell me what you found out about him. I've been after him for three days. Logan tipped him wrong. And he started the south trail for Eldara. I got in his trail three times, and couldn't catch him till we hit Eldara. I thought that Roneviers was the most durable horse on the range, Steve. You've often told me so. He is, but you couldn't catch Bard? He was on a faster horse than mine. For a while. Well, isn't he now? I killed the horse. You showed your hand, then. He knows you were sent after him. No, he thinks it's because of a woman. Is he tangling himself up with some girl, frowned the rancher? He's cutting in on me with sally fortune, damned his heart. And Nash paled visibly, even through the whiskers and mud. The other almost smiled. So soon, Nash? With hausses and women, he don't lose no time. What's he done? The first trace I caught of him was at a shack of an old ranch house, where he traded his lame horse in. They gave him the wildest Mustang they had, a house that was saddle-shy and that hadn't never been ridden. He busted that house in, a little pie-balled Mustang, tougher than iron, and that was why I didn't catch him till we hit Eldara. The smile was growing more palpable on the face of Drew, and he nodded for the story to continue. Then I came to a house which was all busted up because Bard had come along and flirted with the girl, and she's got too proud for the feller she was engaged to, begun thinking of millionaires right away, I suppose. Next I tracked him to Flanders Saloon, where he'd showed up Sandy Ferguson the day before, and licked him bad. I seen Ferguson. It was sure some licking. Ferguson? The gunfighter? The two-gun man? Him. Ah! Drawled the big man. The color was back in his face. He seemed to be enjoying the recountal hugely. Then I hit Eldara and found all the lights out. Because of Bard? Hmm. He'd had a run-in with Butch Conklin, and Butch threatened to come back with all his gang and wipe Eldara off the map. He stuck around, and while he was waiting for Butch and his gang, he started flirting with Sally, Fortune. The name seemed to stick in his throat, and he had to bring it out with a grimace. So now you want his blood, Nash? I'll have it, said the cow-puncher quietly. I have a gambler's luck. In the end I'm sure I'll win. You're not going to win here, Nash? No, queried the younger man, with a dangerous intonation? No. I know the blood behind this chap. You won't win here. Blood will out. He smote his great fist on the desktop, and his laugh was a thunder which reverberated through the room. Blood will out. The blood of John Bard? Asked Nash. Drew started. Who said John Bard? He grew gray again, the flesh dying swiftly. He started to his feet and repeated in a great voice, sweeping the room with a wild glance. Who said John Bard? I thought maybe this was his son, answered Nash. You're a fool. Does he look like John Bard? No. There's only one person in the world he looks like. He strawed again up and down the room, repeating in a deep monotone, John Bard. Coming to a sharp halt, he said, I don't want the rest of your story. The point is that the boy will be here within an hour, two hours. We've got work to do before that time. Listen to me, answered the foreman. Don't let him get inside this house. I'd rather take part of hell into a house of mine. Besides, if he sees me, he's coming here, but he's not going to see either of us. My mind is made up, neither of us, until I have him helpless. CHAPTER XXIII of Treylin by Max Brand. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Being by Rowdy Delaney. Idaho, USA. CHAPTER XXIII THE COMEDY SETTING Dead, you mean, broke in Nash, because otherwise he'll never be helpless. I tell you, Nash, said the other solemnly, I can make him helpless with one minute of talk. My problem is to keep that devil harmless while he listens to me talk. Another thing, if he ever sees me, nothing but death will stop him from coming at my throat. Speaking personal, said the other coldly, I never take no chances on fillers that might come at my throat. I know, you're for the quick draw and the quick finish. But I'd rather die myself than have a hair on his head hurt. I mean that. Nash, his thought spinning, stood staring blankly. I give up trying to figure it out. But if he's coming here and you want to keep him safe, I'd better take a fresh husk and get twenty miles away before night. You'll do nothing of the kind. You'll stay here with me. And face him without a gun? Ask the other incredulously? Leave gun-talk out of this. I think one of the boys looks a little like me. Lawler, isn't that his name? Hmm, yes. A little bit like you. But he's got his thickness through the stomach and not through the chest. Never mind. He's big and he's gray. Then for him, and get the rest of the boys in here. They're round now for noon. Get everyone, understand, and make it fast. In ten minutes they came to the office in a troupe. Rough men, smooth men, little and big, fat and thin. But good cattlemen, every one. Boys, said Drew, a tenderfoot is coming to the ranch today. I'm going to play a few jokes on him. First of all, I want you to know that until the stranger leaves the house, Lawler is going to take my place. He is going to be Drew. Understand? Lawler broke out several of them, and turned in surprise to a big, cheerful man, gray, plump, with monstrous white whiskers. Because he looks a bit like me. First, you'll have to crop those whiskers, Lawler. He clutched at his threatened whiskers with both hands. Crop them? Chief, you ain't maybe runnin' me a bit. Not a bit, said Drew, smiling faintly. I'll make it worth your while. It took me thirty years to raise these whiskers, said the cattlemen, stern with rebuke. Do you think I could be hired to give them up? It's like givin' up some of myself. Let him go, then. You can play the part, whiskers and all. The rest of you remember that Lawler is boss. And brand that deep, growled Lawler, looking about with a frown. He had already stepped into his part. The others laughed loudly. Ready there, called Drew, Lawler starts his boss right now. Cut out the laughin'. I'll tell the rest of you what you're to do later on. In the meantime, just step out, and I'll have a talk with Lawler on his part. We haven't much time to get ready. But remember, if one of you grins when Lawler gives an order, I'm done with that man, that's all. They filed out of the room, looking serious, and Drew concentrated on Lawler. This sounds like a joke, he began, but there's something serious about it. If you carry it through safely, there's a hundred in it for you. If you fall down, why, you fall out of an easy place on this ranch. The big cattleman wiped growing perspiration from his forehead, and considered his boss with plaintive eyes. This tenderfoot who's comin' is green to the range, but he's a hard man, a fine horseman, a sure shot, and a natural fighter. More than that, he's comin' here lookin' for trouble, and he'll expect to get trouble from you. Lawler brushed his mustache anxiously. Let someone else take the job, that's all. A hundred ain't to be picked up every week, but I'll do without it. In my day I've done my share of brawlin' around, but I'm too stiff in the joints to make a fast draw and get away now. Let Nash take the job. He's gunfighter enough to handle this bad man for you? No, said Drew. Not even Nash can handle this one. Then with a mighty and explosive emphasis, there ain't no possible use of me lingerin' around the job. So long. Wait! This young chap isn't going to murder you. I'll tell you this much. The man he wants is I. But he knows my face, not my name. He's been on the trail of that face for some time, and now he's trackin' it to the right house. But when he sees you, and hears you call Drew, he'll be thrown off again. The other nodded gloomily. I'm by way of a lightning rod, the tender foot with the hard hand. He strikes, and I sort of conduct the shock away from anything that'll burn. Eh? Drew overlooked the comment. There are certain things about me you will have to know. And he explained carefully the story which Nash had told to Bard. Does Bard ask the cautious luller? Is he in a relation of old John Bard? Even if he were, it wouldn't make your position dangerous. The man he wants is I. He knows my face, not my name. Until he sees me, he'll be perfectly reasonable unless he's crossed. You must seem frank and above board. If you tell more lies than are necessary, he may get suspicious. And if he grows suspicious the game is up, and will have to be finished with a gun play. Remember that. He'll want to know about Nash. Tell him that Nash is a bad one, and that you've fixed him. He mustn't expect to find Nash here. Luller rubbed his hands, like one coming from the cold outdoors to a warm fire. I'm beginning to see the light. Let me at this, Bard. I'm going to get enough fun out of this to keep me laughing the rest of my life. Good. But keep that laugh up your sleeve. If he asks questions, you'll have some solemn things to say. Chief, when the time comes there's going to be about a gallon of tears in my eyes. So Drew left to complete the other arrangements. If Bard reached the house, he must be requested to stay. And if he stayed, he must be fed and entertained. The difficulty in this way was that the servants in the big ranch house were two Chinese boys. They could never be trusted to help in the deception. So Drew summoned two of his men, Shorty Kilrain, and Calamity Ben. He had no other name but Ben, as far as anyone on the range had ever been able to learn. His nickname was derived from the most dollarous face between Eldara and Twin Rivers. Two pale blue eyes, set close together, stared out with an endless and wistful pathos. A long nose dropped below them, and his mouth curled down at the sides. He was hopelessly round-shouldered from too much and careless riding. And in attempting to straighten, he only succeeded in throwing back his head, so that his lean neck generally was in a V-shape, with the Adam's apple at the apex of the wedge. Shorty Kilrain received his early education at sea, and there learned a general handiness which stood him instead when he came to the mountain desert. There was nothing which Shorty could not do with his hands, for making a knot to throwing a knife, and he was equally ready to oblige with either accomplishment. Drew proposed that he take charge of the kitchen, with Calamity Ben as an assistant. Shorty glowered on the rancher. Me, he said, me go into the galley and wait on a blasted tender foot? After he leaves you'll have a month off with pay, and some over, Shorty. Don't want the month off. Drew considered him thoughtfully, following the precept of wall pool that every man had his price. What do you want, Shorty? The exhaler scratched his head, and then rolled his eyes with a dawning smile, as one who sees a vision of ultimate bliss. Let one of the other boys catch my house out of the corral every morning, and saddle him for me for a month. It's a bargain. What'll you do with the time? Sit on the fence and roll a cigarette like a blasted gentleman, and dam the eyes of the feller that's catching my house? And me, said Calamity Ben, what do I get? You get orders, answered Kilrain, from me. Calamity regarded him, uncertain whether or not to fight the point, but apparently he decided the effort was not worthwhile. There ain't going to be no luck come out of this, he said, darkly. Before this tenderfoot gets out of the house, we're all going to wish he was in hell. End of CHAPTER XXIII. CHAPTER XXIV. OF TRAILIN. BY MAX BRAND. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney. Idaho, USA. CHAPTER XXIV. SAMIL HALL. But with the stage set, and the curtain ready to rise on the farce, the audience did not arrive until the shadow of the evening blotted the windows of the office where Big Lawler waited impatiently, rehearsing his part. But when the lamp had been lighted, as though that were a signal for which the tenderfoot had waited, came a knock at the door of the room, and then it was jerked open, and the head of one of the cow-punchers inserted. He's coming. The head disappeared. The door slammed. Lawler stretched both arms wide, shifted his belt, loosened his gun in the holster for the fiftieth time, and exhaled a long breath. Once more the door jerked open, and this time it was the head and sullen face of Nash, enlivened now by a peculiarly unpleasant smile. She's here. As the door closed the grim realization came to Lawler that he could not face the tenderfoot. His staring eyes and his pallor would betray him, even if the jerking of his hands did not. He swung about in the comfortable chair, seized a book, and whisking it open, bowed his head to the reed. All that he saw was the dance of irregular black lines. Voices sounded through the hall outside. Sure, he'll see you, Calamity Ben was saying. And if he wanted to put up for the night there ain't nobody more hospitable than the chief. Right in here, son. The door yawned. He could not see, for his back was resolutely toward it, and he was gripping the cover of the book hard to steady his hands. But he felt a breath of colder air from the outer hall. He felt, above all, a new presence peering in upon him, like a winter-starved links that might flatten its round face against the window, and peer in at the lazy warmth and the comfort of the humans around the hearth inside. Some such feelings sent a chill through Lawler's blood. Hello, called Calamity Ben. Huff! Grunted Lawler. Got a visitor, Mr. Drew. Bring him in. And Lawler cleared his throat. All right. Here he is. The door closed, and Lawler snapped the book shut. Drew said a low voice. The cow-puncher turned in his chair. He intended to rise, but at the sound of that controlled menace he knew that his legs were too weak to answer that purpose. What he saw was a slender fellow, who stood with his head somewhat lowered while his eyes peered down from under-contracted brows, as though the light were hurting them. His feet were braced apart, and his hands dropped lightly on his hips, the very picture of a man ready to spring into action. Under the great brush of his mustache, Lawler said his teeth, but he was instantly at ease. For if the side of the stranger shook him to the very center, the other was even more obviously shocked by what he saw. The hands dropped limp from his hips, and dangled idly at his sides. His body straightened almost with a jerk, as though he had been struck violently, and now, instead of that searching look, he was blinking down at his host. Lawler rose and extended a broad hand, and an even broader smile. of the strength which had suddenly returned to his legs. How are you, stranger? Sure glad to see you. The other accepted the paw-for'd hand automatically, like one moving in a dream. Are you Drew? Sure am. William Drew? He still held the hand as if he were fearful of the vision escaping with that sensible bondage. William Drew is right. Sit down. Make yourself at home. Thanks, read the other, and as if that breath expelled with it all his strength he slumped into a chair, and sat with a fascinated eye glued to his host. Lawler had time to mark now the signs of long and severe traveling which the other bore. Streaks of mud disfigured him from heel to shoulder, and his face was somewhat drawn, like a man who has gone to work fasting. William Drew? He repeated, more to himself than to Lawler. The latter formed a silent prayer of gratitude that he was not William Drew. I'm forgetting myself when on the tender foot with a ghost of a smile. My name is Bard, Anthony Bard. His glance narrowed again, and this time Lawler, remembering his part, pretended to start with surprise. Bard? Yes, Anthony Bard. Glad to know you. You ain't by any chance related to a John Bard. Why? Had a partner once by that name? Good old John Bard. He shook his head as though overcome by recollections. I've heard something about you and your partner, Mr. Drew. Yes? In fact, it seems to be a rather unusual story. Well, it ain't common. John Bard. I'll tell the world there was a man. Yes, he was. What's that? He must have been, answered Anthony. For all I've heard of him. I'm interested in what I scrapped together about you. You see, he carries the same name. That's natural. How long since you ate? Last night. The hell. Starved? Rather. It's near chow time. Will you eat now or wait for the regular spread? I think I can wait. Thank you. A little drink right now to help you along, eh? He strode over to the open door. Hey, shorty! For answer there came only the wail of an old pirate song. Oh my name, Sammel Hall, Sammel Hall. My name, Sammel Hall, Sammel Hall. My name, Sammel Hall. And I hate you one and all. You're a gang of muckers all. Damn your eyes. Listen, said Lawler, turning to his guest with a deprecating wave of the hand. A cook would sing. Which in the old days I wouldn't have had a bum like that around the place. But there ain't no choosin' now. The voice from the kitchen rolled out louder. I killed a man, they said. So they said. I killed a man, they said. So they said. I killed a man, they said. After I hit him on the head, and left him there for dead, damn your eyes. Hey! Shorty kill rain! Bellowed the aggravated host. He turned to bard. What do you do with a bum like that for a cook? Pam wages and keep him around to sing songs. I like this one. Listen. They put me in the quad, in the quad. They put me in the quad, in the quad. They put me in the quad. They chained me to a rod. And they left me there, by God. Damn your eyes. Kill rain! Come here. Make it fast, or I'll damn your eyes. He explained to bard. Got to be hard with these fellers, or you never get nowhere with them. Yo-ho! Answered the voice of the singer, and approached booming. The parson he did come, he did come. The parson he did come, did come. The parson he did come. He looked all mighty glum. He talked of kingdom come. Damn your eyes. And short he loomed in the doorway, and caught his hand to his forehead in a nautical salute. He had one bad eye, and now it squinted villainously as if he were the real Sammel Hall. Right, oh, sir. What do you have, mate? Don't mate me, you ignorant sweeping of the South Sea, but trot up some red eye, and gallop. The ex-sailor shifted his quid so that it stuck far out in the opposite cheek, with such violence of pressure that a little white spot appeared through the tan of the skin. He regarded luller for a silent moment with both eyes. What the hell are you looking at, roared the other? On your way. The features of kill-rained twitched spasmodically. Right, oh, sir. Another salute, and he was off, his voice coming back less and less distinctly. So up the rope I'll go, I will go. So up the rope I'll go, I'll go. So up the rope I'll go, with a crowd all down below, yelling, Sam, I told you so. Damn your eyes. End of Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Of Trelin by Max Brand This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Being by Rowdy Delaney. Idaho, U.S.A. Chapter 25 Hair like the sunshine. Well grumbled luller, settling back comfortably into his chair, one of these days I'm going to clean out my whole gang, and put in a new one. They maybe won't be any better, but they can't be any worse. Nevertheless he did not seem in the least downhearted, but apparently had some difficulty in restraining his broad grin. The voice of the grim cook returned. I'll see Nelly in the crowd, in the crowd. I'll see Nelly in the crowd, in the crowd. I'll see Nelly in the crowd. And I'll holler to her loud, Hey Nelly, ain't you proud? Damn your eyes. I ask you, cried luller, with freshly risen wrath. Is that any way to go round talking about women? Not talking, he's singing, answered Bard. Let him alone. The thunder of their burly Ganymede singing rose, and echoed about them. And this shall be my knell, be my knell. And this shall be my knell, my knell. And this shall be my knell. Sam, I hope you go to hell. Sam, I hope you sizzle well. Damn your eyes. Shorty Kilrain appeared in the doorway, his mouth wide on the last long wailing note. Shorty, said luller, with a sort of hopeless sadness. Ain't you never been educated to sing no better songs than that? Why, you all grey-headed, began Shorty, and then stopped Short, and hitched his trousers violently. Luller pushed the whiskey-bottle in the glass toward Bard. Help yourself. And to Kilrain, who was leaving the room. Come back here. Well, snarled the sailor, half turning at the door. While I'm running this here ranch, you're going to have manners, see? If manners was like whiskers, said the unabashed Shorty, it'd take me nigh on thirty years to get them. And he winked at Bard for sympathy. Luller smashed his fist on the table. What I say is, are you running this ranch or am I? Well, growled Kilrain, if you was a kid, you'd have your mouth washed out with soap. The eyes of Shorty bulged. It ought to be done now, but there ain't no one I'd give such dirty work to. What you're going to do is stand right here and show us you know how to sing a decent song in a decent way. That their song of yours didn't leave nothing sacred untouched, from parson's and jails to women in the gallows. Stand over there and sing. The sailor's eyes filmed over with cold hate. Was I hired to punch cattle, he said, or make a blasted roar and fool out of myself? You was hired, answered Luller softly, as he filled his glass to the brim with old rye whiskey, to be a cook, and you're the rottenest hashlinger that ever served cold dough for biscuits. A blasted roar and fool you've already made of yourself by singing that song. I want another one to get the sound of that out of my ears. Tune up. Thoughts of murder, ill-concealed, whitened the face of the sailor. Some day he began hoarsely, and then stopped, for a vision came to him of blithe mornings when he could sit on top of the corral fence, rolling a cigarette, while some other cow-puncher went into the herd and roped and saddled his horse. Do you mean this, Drew? He asked, with an odd emphasis. Do you think I'm talking for fun? What shall I sing? He asked, in a voice which was reduced to a faint whisper by rage. I don't know, mused Luller, but maybe it ought to lie between Alice Benbolt and Anna Laurie. What do you choose, partner? He turned to Bard. Alice Benbolt, by all means. I don't think he could manage the scotch. Start, commanded Luller. The sailor closed his eyes, tilted his head back, twisted his face to a hideous grimace, and then, opening his shapeless mouth, emitted a tremendous wail which took shape in the following words. Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice Benbolt, sweet Alice with the hair-like sunshine? Shut up, Luller roared. It required a moment for Shorty to unkink the congested muscles of his face. What the hell's the matter now, he inquired? Who ever heard of hair-like sunshine? There ain't no such thing possible. Hair so brown, that's what the song says. Shorty, we got more feeling for our ears than to let you go on singing and showing your ignorance. Go on back to the kitchen. Kilorane drew a long breath, regarded Luller again with that considerate expectant eye, and turned on his heel and strawed from the room. Back to Bard came fragments of tremendous cursing of an epic breath and a world-wide inclusiveness. Got to do things like this once in a while to keep him under my thumb, Luller explained genially. With all his might Bard was struggling to reconcile this big-handed vulgarian with his mental picture of the man who could write for an epitaph. Here sleeps Joan, the wife of William Drew. She chose this place for rest. But the two ideas were not inclusive. He said aloud, Aren't you afraid that that black-eyed fellow will run a knife between your ribs one of these dark nights? Who? My ribs? exclaimed Luller, nevertheless, stirring somewhat uneasily in his chair? Nope, they know that I'm William Drew. They may be hard, but they know I'm harder. Oh! Drawed the other. And his eyes held with uncomfortable steadiness on the rosy face of Luller. I understand. To cover his confusion, Luller seized his glass. Here's to you, drinking deep. He tossed off the mighty potion. Bard had poured only a few drops into his glass. He had too much sympathy for his empty stomach to do more. His host leaned back, coughing, with tears of pleasure in his eyes. Damn me! he breathed reverently. I ain't touched stuff like this in ten years. Is this new stock, inquired Bard, apparently puzzled? This, said Luller, recalling his position with a start? Sure it is. Brand new. Yep, stuff ain't been in here more than five days. Smooth ain't it. Medicine, that's what I call it. A gentleman's drink goes down like water. Observing a rather quizzical light in the eyes of Bard, he felt that he had probably been making a few missteps, and being warmed greatly at the heart by the whiskey he launched forth in a new phase of the conversation. CHAPTER XXVI THE CRITIC OF PURE REASON Speaking of hard cattlemen, he said, I could maybe tell you a few things, son. No doubt of it, smiled Anthony. I presume it would take a very hard man to handle this crowd. Fairly hard, nodded the redoubtable Luller. But there ain't nothing to the men that used to ride the range in the old days. No? Nope. One of them men? Why, he'd eat a dozen like Kilrain, and think nothing of it. Then was the sort I learned to ride the range with. I've heard something about a fight which you and John Bard had against the Piatto Gang. Care to tell me anything of it? Luller logged easily back in his chair, and balanced a second big drink between thumb and forefinger. There ain't no harm in talk, son. Sure, I'll tell you about it. What do you want to know? The way Bard fought? The way you both fought? Let me see. He closed his eyes like one who strives to recollect. He was, in fact, carefully recalling the skeleton of facts which Drew had told him earlier in the day. Six months, me and Bard had been trailing Piatto, damn his old soul. Bard, he'd have quit cold a couple of times, but I kept him at it. John Bard would have quit, asked Anthony softly. Sure, he was a big man, was Bard, but he didn't have none too much endurance. Go on, asked Anthony. Six months, I say, we was riding day and night, wearing out a house about every week of that time. Then we just got a hint from a bartender that maybe the Piatto's was nearby in that section. It didn't need no more than a hint for us to get busy on the trail. We hit a circle through those mountains. It was over near Twin Rivers, where the ground ain't got a level stretch of a hundred yards in a whole day's riding. Along about evening of the second day, we come to the house of Tom Shaw, a squatter. Bard would have passed the house up, because he knew Shaw, and said there was nothing crooked about him. But I didn't trust nobody in them days. And I ain't changed a pile since. That, remarked Anthony, is a good example I think I shall follow. A. said Lawler, somewhat blankly. Well, we rode up on the blind side of the house. From the north, see, got off, and sneaked around to the east end of the shack. The windows was covered with claws on the inside, which didn't make me none too sure about Shaw having no dealings with crooks. It ain't ordinary for a feller to be saving on light. Pretty soon we found a tear in one of the claws, and looking through we seen old Piatto sitting beside Tom Shaw, with his daughter on the other side. We went back to the north side of the house, and figured out different ways of tackling the job. There was only two of us, see, and the fellers inside that house were all cut out for man-killers. How would you have gone after him, son? Opened the door, I suppose, and started shooting, said Bard. If I had the courage. The other stared. You heard this story before? Not this part. Well, that was just what we'd done. First off, it sounds like a full way of tackling them, but when you think twice it was the best of all. They never was expecting anybody fool enough to walk right into the room and start fighting. We went back and had a look at the door. It wasn't none too husky. John Bard he tried the latch, soft, but the thing was locked, and when he pulled there was a snap. Who's there, hollers someone inside? We froze again the side of the house, looking at each other pretty sick. Nobody's there, sings out the voice of Piotto. We can trust Tom Shaw. Just because he knows that if he double-crossed us, he'd be the first man to die. And we heard Tom say, sort of quavering, God sakes, boys, what do you think I am? Now, says Bard, and we both put our shoulders to the door and takes our guns in our hands. We each had two. The door went down like nothing, because we was both husky fellers in them days. And as she smashed in, the fall upset two of the boys sitting closest, and gave them no chance on a quick draw. The rest of them was too paralyzed at first, except O Piotto. He pulled his gun, but what he shot was Tom Shaw, who just leaned forward in his chair and crumpled dead. We went at him, pump and lead. It wasn't no fight at first, and half of them was down before they had their guns working. But when the real hell started, it was no fireside story, I'll tell a man. We had the jump on them, but they meant business. I dropped to the floor and lay on my side, shooting. Bard he followed suit. They went down like tin-pins till our guns were empty. Then we up and rushed what was left of them, Piotto and his daughter. Bard makes a pass to knock the gun out of the hand of Joan, and wallops her in the head instead. Down she goes. I finished Piotto. Work is back, eh? Me? Who ever heard a break in a man's back, ha ha ha. You've been here in fairy-tales, son. Nope, I choked the old rat. Were you badly hurt? Lawler searched his memory hastily. There was no information on this important point. A couple of grays, as he said, dismissing the subject with a tolerant wave of the hand. Nothing worth talking about. I see, Bard nodded. It occurred to Lawler that his guest was taking the narrative in a remarkably philosophic spirit. He reviewed his telling of the story hastily, and could find nothing that jarred. He concluded, that was the way of living in them days. They ain't no more. They ain't no more. And now, Anthony said, the only excitement you get is out of books and running the laborers? He picked up the book which Lawler had just laid down. Oh, I read a bit now and then, said the cow-puncher easily. But I ain't much on book-learning. Bard was turning the pages slowly. The title, whose meaning dawned slowly on his astonished mind as a sunset comes in winter over a gray landscape, was the critique of pure reason. He turned the book over and over in his hands. It was well-thumbed. He asked, controlling his voice, Are you fond of Kant? A. queried the other. Fond of this book. Yep, that's one of my favorites. But I ain't much on any books. However, said Bard, the story of this one is interesting. It is. There's some great stuff in it, mumbled Lawler, trying to squint at the title, which he had quite overlooked during the days in which he first picked it up. Bard laid the book aside, and out of sight. And I like the characters, don't you? Some very close work done with them. Yep, there's a lot of narrow escapes. Exactly. I'm glad we agree about books. So am I. Feller can kill a lot of time chinnin' about books. Yes, I suppose a good many people have killed time over this book. And as he smiled genially upon the cow-puncher, Bard felt a great relief sweeping over him. A mighty gladness that this was not Drew. That this loose-lipped gambler was not the man who had written the epitaph over the tomb of Joan Piotto. He lied about the book. He had lied about it all. And knowing that this was not Drew, he suddenly felt as if someone were watching him from behind, someone large and gray and stern of eye, like the giant who had spoken to him so long before in the arena at Madison Square Garden. A game was being played with him. And behind that game must be Drew himself. All Bard could do was wait for developments. The familiar, booming voice of Shorty Kilrain echoed through the house. Supper and a loud clanger of a bell supported the invitation. Chow-time, breathed baller heavily, like one relieved at the end of a hard shift of work. I figure you ain't sorry, son. No, answered Bard. But it's too bad to break off this talk. I've learned a lot. End of CHAPTER XXVI. CHAPTER XXVII. OF TRAILIN. By Max Brand. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney. Idaho, USA. CHAPTER XXVII. THE STAGE. You first, said Lawler, at the door. I've been taught to let an older man go first, said Bard, smiling pleasantly, after you, sir. Any way you want it, Bard. Answered Lawler. But as he led the way down the hall, he was saying to himself, through his stiffly mumbling lips, he knows. Calamity was right. There's going to be hell-popping before long. He lengthened his stride going down the hall to the dining-room, and entering he found the cow-punchers about to take their places around the big table. Straight toward the head to the big chair he stalked, and paused an instant beside little Duffy. Their exchange of whispers was like a muffled rapid fire, for they had finished before young Bard, now just entering the room, could reach them and take his designated seat at the right of Lawler. He knows, muttered Lawler. Hell, then it's all up. No, keep bluffing. Wait. How's everything? Gregory ain't come in, but Drew may put him wise before he gets inside the house. You've done all I could expect, said Lawler, as Bard came up. But tomorrow go back to the same job, and try to get something definite. Mr. Bard, here's your place, partner. Just been telling Duffy there, on your right, about some work. Some of the doggies have been rustled lately, and were on their trail. They took their places, and Bard surveyed the room carefully, as an actor who stands in the wings, and surveys the stage on which he is soon to step, and play a great part. For Anthony there was a gathering sense of impending disaster, and action. What he saw was a long, low apartment, the bare rafters overhead, browned by the kitchen smoke, which even now was rolling in from the wide door at the end of the room. The thick, oily smoke of burnt meat, mingled with steam, and the nameless vapours of a great oven. There was no semblance of decoration on the walls. The boards were not even painted. It was strictly a place of use, not pleasure. The food itself, which Shorty Kilrain, and Calamity Ben now brought on, was distinctly utilitarian rather than appetizing. The piste de resistance was a monstrous platter heaped with beef steak. Not the inviting meat of a restaurant in a civilized city, but thin, brown slabs, fried dry throughout. The real nourishment was in the gravy in which the steak swam. In a dish of even more amazing proportions was a vast heap of potatoes boiled with their jackets on. Lawler commenced loading the stack of plates before him, each with a slab and a potato or two. In time from a number of big coffee-pots a stream of liquid, bitter as lye and black as night, was poured into ten cups. Yet the cattlemen at the table settled themselves for the meal with a pleasant expectation, fully equal to that of the most seasoned gourmet in a Manhattan restaurant. The peculiar cowboy's squint, a frowning of the brow and a compression of the thin lips, relaxed. That frown came from the steady effort to shade the eyes from the white-hot sunlight. The compression of the lips was due to a determination to admit none of the air laden with alkali dust, except through the nostrils. It grew in time into a perpetual grimace, so that the expression of an old range-writer is that of a man stealing himself, to pass through some grim ordeal. Now as they relaxed, Anthony perceived, first of all, that most of the grimness passed away from the narrowed eyes, and they lighted instead with good-humored banter, though of a weary nature. One by one they cast off ten years of age, the lines rubbed out, the jaws which had thrust out grew normal, the leaning heads straightened and went back. They paid not the slightest attention to the newcomer, talking easily among themselves, but Anthony was certain that at least some of them were thinking of him. If they said nothing, their thoughts were the more. In fact, in the meantime little Duffy had passed on to the next man, in a side-mutter, the significant phrase, he knows. It went from lip to lip like a watchword passing along a line of synthenals. Each man heard it imperturbably, completed the sentence he was speaking before, or maintained his original silence through a pause, then repeated it to his right-hand neighbor. Their demeanor did not alter perceptively, except that the laughter, perhaps, became a little more uproarious, and they were sitting straighter in their chairs, their eyes brighter. All they knew was that Drew had impressed on them that Bard must not leave that room in command of his six-shooter, or even his hands. He must be bound securely. The working out of the details of execution he had left to their own ingenuity. It might have seemed a little thing to do to greener fellows, but every one of these men was an experienced cow-puncher, and like all old hands on the range they were perfectly familiar with the amount of damage which a single armed man could do. The thing could be done, of course, but the point was to do it with a minimum of danger. So they waited, and talked, and ate, and always from the corner of their eyes were conscious of the slightly built, inoffensive man who sat beside Loller near the head of the table. In appearance he was surely most innocuous. But Nash had spoken, and in such matters they were willing to take his word with a childlike faith. So the meal went on, and the only sign, to the most experienced eye, was that the chairs were placed a little far back from the edge of the table, a most necessary condition when men may have to rise rapidly, or get to their holsters for a quick draw. Calamity Ben, bearing a mighty dish of bread-putting, passed directly behind the chair of the stranger. The whole table watched with a sudden keenness, and they saw barred turn, ever so slightly, just as Calamity passed behind the chair. I say, he said, may I have a bit of hot water to put in this coffee? Sure, said Calamity, and went on, but the whole table knew that the stranger was on his guard. The mutual suspicion gave a tenseness to the atmosphere, as if it were charged with the electricity of a coming storm, a tingling waiting which made men prone to become silent, and then talk again in fitful outbursts. Or it might be said that it was like a glass full of precipitate, which only waits for the injection of a single unusual substance before it settles to the bottom, and leaves the remaining liquid clear. It was for the unusual, then, that the entire assembly waited, feeling momentarily that it must be coming, for the strain could not endure. As for Bard, he stuck by his original apparent indifference. For he still felt sure that the real William Drew was behind this elaborate deception, and the thing for which he waited was some revelation of the hand of the master. The trumps which he felt he held was in being forewarned. He could not see that the others knew his hand. He said to Lawler, I think a man named Nash works on this ranch. I expected to see him at supper here. Nash? Answered Lawler. Sure, he used to be foreman here. Ain't no more. Nope, I couldn't stand for his lip. Didn't mind him getting fresh till he tried to ride me. Then I turned him loose. Where did you meet him? While I was riding in this direction. Wanted to see him bad? The other moistened his lips. Rather, he killed my horse. A silence fell on these who were within hearing. They would not have given equal attention to the story of the killing of a man. How did he get away with it? The savorac was between us. Before I could get my gun out he was riding out of range. I'll meet him, and have another talk some day. Well, the range ain't very small. But, my dear fellow, it's not nearly as big as my certainty of meeting this Kerr. There is something in the low, slow voice more thrilling than the thunder of actual rage. Those who heard glanced to one another with thoughtful eyes. They were thinking of Nash, and thinking of him with sympathy. Little Duffy, squat and thick set, felt inspiration descend on him. He turned to bard on his left. That ain't a full-size forty-five, is it? That one-year packin'? Doesn't it look it? Answered bard. Nope. Holster seems pretty small to me. It's the usual gun, I'm sure, said bard, and pulled the weapon from the leather. Holding the butt loosely, his trigger-finger hooked clear around the far side of the guard, he showed the gun. I was wrong, not a Duffy, unabashed. That's the regular kind. Let's have a look at it. And he stretched out his hand. No one would ever have guessed how closely the table followed what now happened, for each man began talking in a voice even louder than before. It was as if they sought to cover the stratagem of Duffy with their noise. There's nothing unusual about the gun, bard said, but I'd be glad to let you have it, except that I've formed a habit of never letting a six-yeary get away from me. It's a foolish habit, I know, but I can't lose it. If there's any part you'd like to see, just name it. Thanks, answered Duffy. I guess I've seen all I want of it. Calamity had failed. Duffy had failed. It began to look as if force of downright numbers must settle the affair. CHAPTER XXVIII. SALLY BREAKS A MIRROR As Sally remarked the night before, one does not pay much attention to a toilette when one rises at five a.m. At least that is the rule, but Sally, turning with a groan in the chill, dark room, shut off the alarm, lighted the lamp, and set about the serious task of dressing. A woman, after all, is much like a diplomatic statesman. A hint along certain lines is more to her than a sworn statement. She had secured a large mirror, and in front of this she labored patiently for a full ten minutes, twisting her hair this way and that, and using the comb and brush vigorously. Now and then, as she worked, she became aware that a fluff of hair rolling down low over her forehead did amazing things to her face, and brought her from Sally Fortune into the strange dignity of a lady. But she could not complete any of the maneuvers, no matter how promisingly they started. In the end, she dashed a handful of hairpins on the floor, and wound her hair about her head in a few swift turns. She studied the sullen, boyish visage which looked back at her. After all, she would be unmercifully joked if she were to appear with her hair grown suddenly fluffy and womanly. It would become impossible for her to run the eating-place without the assistance of a man, and a fighting-man at that. So what was the use? She threw the mirror crashing on the floor. It splintered in a thousand pieces. After all, she murmured aloud, do I want to be a woman? The sullen mouth undoubtedly answered no. The wistful eyes undoubtedly replied in another key. She shrugged the question away and stepped out of her room toward the kitchen, whistling a tune to raise her spirits. "'Late, Sally,' said the cook, tossing another hot-cake on the growing pile, which surmounted the warmer. "'Sure, I busted my mirror,' said Sally. The cook stared at her in such astonishment that he allowed a quantity of dough to fall from the dish, cupped in the hollow of his arm. It overflowed the griddle-iron. "'Blockhead,' Sally shouted. "'Watch your step!' She resumed when the dough had been rescued by somewhat questionable means. "'Do you think a girl can dress in the dark?' The cook had had too much experience with his employer to press what seemed a tender point. He confined his attention to the pancakes. "'There ain't no fool worse than a he-fool,' continued Sally bitterly. "'Which maybe you think a girl can dress without a mirror?' Since this taunt brought no response from her victim, she went into the eating-room. It was already filling, and the duties of her strenuous day began. They continued without interruption hour after hour. For the popularity of her restaurant had driven all competition out of Eldara, a result which filled the pocket-book and fattened the bank account of Sally Fortune, but loaded unnumbered burdens onto her strong shoulders. However she could not hire a waiter to take her place. Every man who came into the eating-room expected to be served by the slim hands of Sally herself, and he expected also some trifling repartee which would make him pay as bill with a grin. The repartee dragged with Sally to-day, almost to sullenness. And when she began to grow weary in the early afternoon, there was no reserve of strength on which she could fall back. Suddenly she became aware that she wanted support, aid, comfort. Suddenly she spilled a great armful of empties down on the long drain-board of the sink, turned to the wall, and buried her face in her hands. The cook, Burt, though he cast a startled glance at her, would not have dared to speak after that encounter of the morning, but a rather explosive sniff was too eloquent and appeal to his manliness. His left sleeve had fallen. He rolled it back, tied the strings of the apron tighter about his plump middle, and advanced to the battle. His hand touched the shoulder of the girl. Sally, shut your face, moaned a stifled voice. But he took his courage between his teeth and persisted. Sally is something wrong. Nothing you can write, Fatty, said the same woe-stricken voice. Sally, if somebody's been getting fresh with you—her arms jerked down. She whirled and faced him with clenched fists, her eyes shining more brightly for the mist which was in them. Fresh? With me? Why, you poor, one-horned yearling, do you think there's anybody in Eldura man enough to get fresh with me? Burt retreated a step. Caution was now a moving element in his nature. From a vantage point behind a table, however, he ventured. Then what is wrong? Her woe, apparently, was greater than her wrath. She said sadly, I don't know, Burt, I ain't the man I used to be. I mean the woman. He waited, his small eyes gentle. That woman can altogether resist sympathy, even from a fat man and a cook, not even the redoubtable soul of Sally. She confessed, I feel sort of hollow and gone. Around the stomach, Fatty. Eat suggested the cook. I just took a pie out that would—but it ain't the stomach. It's like being hungry and wanting no food. Fatty, do you think I'm sick? You look kind of whitish. Fatty I feel—she hesitated, as though too great a confession were at her lips. But she stumbled on. I feel as if I was afraid of something. Or someone. That, Burt said confidently, ain't possible. It's the stomach, Sally. Something ate agreed with you. She turned from him with a vague gesture of despair. If this here feeling is going to keep up, why, I wished I was dead. I wished I was dead. She went on to the swinging door, paused there to dabber eyes swiftly, waited to whistle a tune, and in this fashion marched back to the eating-room. Fatty, turning back to the stove, shook his head. He was more than ever convinced in his secret theory that all women are crazy. Sally found that a new man had entered, one whom she could not remember having seen before. She went to him at once, for it seemed to her that she would die, indeed, if she had to look much longer on the familiar, unshaven faces of the other men in the room. Anything you got, the stranger said, who was broad of hands and thick of neck, and cast an anxious eye on her. I hear you've seen something of a thinnish darkfeller named Bard. What do you want with him, asked Sally with dangerous calm? I was aiming to meet up with him, that's all. Partner, if you want to stand in solid around here, don't let out that you're a friend of his. He ain't none too popular. That's the straight, and putting it nice and easy. Which who said I was his friend, said the other with heat? She turned away to the kitchen, and reappeared shortly, bearing his meal. The frown with which she departed had disappeared, and she was smiling as brightly as ever while she arranged the dishes in front of him. He paid no attention to the food. Now she said, resting both hands on the table and leaning so that she could look him directly in the eye. What's Bard done now? Horse? Gunfighter? Woman? Which? The man loosened the bandana that circled his bull neck. Woman, he said, hoarsely, and the blood swelled in his throat and face with veins of purple. Ah! Drawed the girl. And straightening, she dropped both hands on her hips. It was a struggle, but she managed to summon another smile. Wife? Sister? Sweetheart? The man stared dubiously on her, and Sally, mother of five hundred wild rangers, knew the symptoms of a man eager for a confidant. She slipped into the opposite chair. It might be any of the three she went on gently, and I know, because I've seen him work. Damn his soul, growled the other by way of a prefix to his story. It ain't any of the three with me. This Bard, maybe he tried his hand with you. Whether it was rage or scorn that made her start and redden, he could not tell. Me, she repeated, a tender foot get fresh with me. Stranger, you ain't been long in Eldora, or you wouldn't pull a bonehead like that. Excuse me, I was hoping that maybe you took a fall out of him, that's all. He studied the blue eyes. They had been tinted with ugly green a moment before, but now they were clear, deep, dark, guileless blue. He could not resist. The very nearness of the woman was like a gentle, cool hand caressing his forehead, rubbing away the troubles. It was like this he began. Me and Lizzie had been thick for a couple of years, and was just waiting till I'd corralled enough cash for a start. Then the other day along comes this fellow Bard with a queer way of talking school language, made you feel like you was reading a bit out of a dictionary just to listen to him for a minute. Liz, she never heard nothing like it, I figure. She got all eyes and sat still and listened. Even like that he plum-made a fool out of Liz, kitted her along, and wound up kissing her good-bye. I didn't see none of this, I just heard about it later. When I come up and started talking just friendly with Liz, she got sore and passed me a frosty stare. I didn't think she could be doing more than kidding me a bit, so I kept right on and ended up with Liz saying, all was over between us. He paused on his tragedy, said his teeth over a sigh, and went on. The fellow ain't no good. I know that from a chap that come to the house a few hours after Bard left. Nash was his name. What? Nash. Feller built husky around the shoulders. Looks like a fighter, know him? Pretty well. Do you say he came to your house right after Bard left it? Yep. Why? How long ago was this? About three days. Three days? What's wrong? Nothing. You looked like you was going to murder someone, lady. Your laughter ended with a jerk and jar. Maybe I am. Go on. Tell me more about what this Nash said. Why he didn't say much. Hinted around that maybe Bard had walked off with the piebald hoss he was riding. That's a lie. Lady, said the other a little coldly, you say that like you was a friend of Bard's. Me? There ain't nobody in these parts man enough to say to my face that I'm a friend of that tender foot. I'm glad of that. My name's Ralph Boardman. I'm Sally Fortune. Sure, I've heard of you a lot. Say you couldn't tip me off where I could hit the trail of Bard. Don't know. Wait, let me see. She studied with closed eyes. What she was thinking was that if Nash had been so close to Bard three days before he was surely on the trail of the tender foot and certainly that meeting in her place had not been a casual one. She said her teeth, thinking of the promise Nash had given to her. Undoubtedly he had laughed at it afterward. And now Bard probably lay stretched out on his back somewhere among the silent hills, looking up to the pittiless brightness of the sky with eyes which could never shut. The hollow feeling of which Sally had complained to Burt grew to a positive ache and the tears stood up closer to her eyes. Wait around town, she said, in a changed voice. I think I heard him say something of riding out. But he'll be back before long. That's the only tip I can give you, partner. She rose and hurried back to the kitchen. Burt, she said, I'm off for the rest of the day. You've got to handle the place. He panted, but the heavy rush. It hasn't started yet. It started for me. What do you mean? Nothing. I'm on my way. So long, Burt. Back in the morning brightened early. If she could not find Bard, at least she could find Nash at the ranch of Drew. And in that direction she headed her racing horse. Jansen, the big swede, was the first to finish his meal in Drew's dining-room. For that matter, he was always first. He ate with astonishing expedition, lowering his head until that tremendous, shapeless mouth was close to the plate, and then working knife and fork alternately with an unfaltering industry. Tonight, spurred on by a desire to pass through this mechanical effort, and to be prepared for the coming action, his speed was something truly marvelous. He did not appear to eat. The food simply vanished from his plate. It was absorbed like a mist before the wind. While the others were barely growing settled in their places, Jansen was already through. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, produced Durham and papers and proceeded to light up. Lawler, struggling still to re-establish himself in the eyes of Bard as the real William Drew, seized the opportunity to exert a show of authority. He smashed his big fist on the table. Jansen, he roared. A. run of the suede. Where was you raised? Me? You, square-head. Elver-heimernstead-haven. Are you sneezing or talking English? Jansen irritated bellowed. Elver-heimerstead-haven. That's where I was born. That's where you was born? Elver, damn, such a language? No wonder you Swedes don't know nothing. It takes all your time learning how to talk your lingo. But if you ain't never had no special training in manners, I'm going to make a late start with you now. Put out that cigarette. The pale eyes of Jansen stared. Fascinated, the vast mouth fell agape. Maybe he began and then finished weakly. I be damned. There ain't no reasonable way of doubting that unless you put out that smoke. Hear me? Shorty Kilorane, coming from the kitchen, grinned broadly. He felt the lash of discipline himself. He was glad to see it fall in another place. He continued his gleeful course around that side of the table. And Big Jansen slowly, imperturbably, raised the cigarette and inhaled a mighty cloud of smoke which issued at once in a rushing, fine-blue mist, impelled by a snort. Maybe he rumbled completing his thought. Maybe you're one damn fool. I'm going to learn you who's boss in these parts, boomed-laller. Put out that cigarette. Don't you know no better than to smoke at the table? Jansen pushed his chair back and started to rise. There was no doubt as to his intentions. They were advertised in the dull and growing red which flamed in his face. But Kilorane, as though he had known such a moment would come, caught the Swede by the shoulders and forced him back into the chair. As he did so, he whispered something in the ear of Jansen. Let him go, bellered-laller. Let him come. Don't hold him. I ain't had work for my hands for five years. I need exercise. I do." The mouth of Jansen stirred, but no words came. A hopeless yearning was in his eyes. But he dropped the cigarette and grounded under his heel. I thought, growled-laller, that you knew your master, but don't make no mistake again. Speak in personal. I don't think no more of knocking down a Swede than I do of flicking ashes off in a cigar. He indulged in a side-glance at Bard to see if the latter were properly impressed, but Anthony was staring blankly straight before him, unable to all appearances, to see anything of what was happening. Kilorane went on-laller, trot out some cigars, you know where they're kept. Kilorane, falling to the temptation, asked, Where's the key to the cabinet? For Drew kept his tobacco in a small cabinet, locked because of long experience with tobacco-loving employees. Laller started to speak, checked himself, fumbled through his pockets and then roared, Smash the door open, I misplaced the key. No semblance of a smile altered the faces of the cow-punches around the table, but glances of vague meaning were interchanged. Kilorane reappeared almost at once, bearing a large box of cigars under each arm. The eats being over, announced Laller, we can now light up, open them boxes shorty. Am I going to work on you the rest of my life teaching you how to serve cigars? Kilorane sighed deeply, but obeyed, presenting the open boxes in turn to Bard, who thanked him, and to Laller, who bit off the end of his smoke continued. A match Kilorane! And he waited, swelling with pleasure, his eyes fixed upon space. Kilorane lighted a match, and held it for the two in turn. Two rows of waiting, expectant eyes were turned from the whole length of the table toward the cigars. Shall I pass on the cigars, suggested Bard? These smokes, breathed Laller, waste them on common hands. Partner, you ain't serious, are you? A breath, like the faint sign of wind, reached them. The cow-punches were resigned, and started to roll their own Durham. But it seemed as if a chuckle came from above. It was only some sound in the gasoline lamp, a big fixture which hung suspended by a slender chain from the center of the ceiling, and immediately above the table. Civilized cow-punchers went on Laller, tilting back in his chair and bracing his feet against the edge of the table. Civilized cow-punchers is worse in break and mustangs. They sum that say it can't be done. But look at this crew. Do they look like roughens? A stir had passed among the cow-punchers, and saw them stairs of hate transfixed Laller. But he went on. I'm asking you. Do these look rough? I should say, answered Bard courteously, that you have a pretty experienced lot of cattlemen. Experienced? Well, they'll pass. They've had experience with bar-whiskey, and talking to their cards at poker. But aside from being pretty much drunks, and crookin' the cards, they ain't anything uncommon. But when I got them, they was wild they was. Why, if I talked like this in front of them, they'd have been guns-pulled. But look at them now. I ask you. Look at them now. Ain't they tame? They heard me call them what they are, but they don't even bat an eye. Yes, sir, I've tamed them. They took a lot of licking, but now they're tame. Hello? For through the doors stalked a newcomer. He paused and cast a curious eye up the table to Laller. What the hell? He remarked naively. Where's the chief? Fired bellowed Laller, without a moment of hesitation. Who fired him? Asked the new man, with an expectant smile, like one who waits for the point of a joke, but he caught a series of strange signals from men at the table, and made a broad wink. I fired him, Gregory, answered Laller. I fired Nash. He turned to Bard. You see, he said rather weakly, the boys is used to call a Nash the chief. Ah, yes, said Bard, I understand. And Laller felt that he did understand, and too well. Gregory in the meantime, silenced by the mysterious signs from his fellow cow-punchers, took his place and began eating without another word. No one spoke to him, but as if he caught the tenseness of the situation, his eyes finally turned and glanced up the table at Bard. It was easy for Anthony to understand that glance. It was the sort of look which the curious turn on the accused man of a great crime, and sitting in the courtroom guilty. His trial in silence had continued until he was found guilty. Apparently he was now to be both judged and executed at the same time. There could not be long delay. The entrance of Gregory had almost been the precipitant of action, and though it had been smoothed over to an extent, still the air was each moment charged with suspense. The men were lighting their second cigarettes. With each second it grew clearer that they were waiting for something. And as if thoughtful of the work before them, they no longer talked so fluently. Finally there was no talk at all, save the sporadic outbursts, and the blue smoke and the brown curled up in undisturbed drifts toward the ceiling until a bright halo formed around the gasoline lamp. A childish thought came to Bard that where the smoke was so thick the fire could not be long delayed. A second form appeared in the doorway, lithe, graceful, and the light made her hair almost golden. Lieutenant Feller's, called Sally Jontely, hello, Lawler, what you doing at the head of the table? End of CHAPTER XXIX CHAPTER XXXVIII of Trelin by Max Brandt. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LIBERBOX.ORG. Reading by Rowdy Delaney. Idaho, U.S.A. CHAPTER XXXV The lamp. The bluff was ended. It was as if the wind had blew a cloud suddenly from the face of the sun, and the yellow sunlight poured brightly over the world, so everyone in the room at the voice of Sally knew that the time had come for action. There was no vocal answer to her, but each man rose slowly in his place, his gun naked in his hand, and every face turned to bard. Gentlemen, he said in his soft voice, I see that my friend Lawler has not wasted his lesson in manners. At least you know enough to rise when a lady enters the room. His gun, held at the hip, pointed straight down the table toward the burly form of Jansen. But his eyes, like those of a pugilist, seemed to be taking in every face at the table, and each man felt in some subtle manner that the danger would fall on him first. They did not answer, but hands were tightened around revolver butts. Lawler moved back, pace by pace, his revolver shaking in his hand. But, when on bard, you were all facing me. Is it possible? He laughed. I knew that Mr. Drew was very anxious to receive me with courtesy, but I did not dream that he would be able to induce so many men to take care of me. When Sally Fortune, bracing herself against the wall with one hand, and in the capable grasp of the other a six-gun balanced, stared in growing amazement on the scene, and shuddered at the silences. Bard, she called, what have I done? You've started a game, he answered, which I presume we've all been waiting to play. What about it, boys? I hope you're well paid. I'd hate to die a cheap death. A voice, deep and ringing, sounded close at hand, almost within the room, and from a direction which Bard could not locate. Don't harm him if you can help it, but keep him in that room. Bard stepped back a pace till his shoulders touched the wall. Sirs, he said, if you keep me here, you almost certainly have to harm me. A figure ran around the edge of the crowd and stood beside him. Stand clear of me, Sally, he muttered, much moved. Stand away, this is a man's work. The work of a pack of coyotes, she cried shrilly. What do you mean? She turned on them fiercely. Are you going to murder a tenderfoot among you? One that ain't done no real harm? I don't believe my eyes. You, there, shorty kill rain. I've waited on you with my own hands. You've played the man with me. Are you going to play the dog now? Jansen, you was telling me about a blue-eyed girl in Sweden. Have you forgotten about her now? When calamity been—my God, ain't there a man among you to step over here and join the two of us? They were shaken, but the memory of Drew quelled them. There's no harm intended him. On my honor, Sally, said Lawler, all he's got to do is give up his gun, and—and—he finished weakly, let his hands be tied. Is that all, said Sally, scornfully? Don't follow me, Sally, said Bard, stay out of this. Please, you may have been high-paid, but I don't think you've been paid high enough to risk taking a chance with me. If you put me out with the first shot, that ends it, of course. But the chances are that I'll be alive when I hit the floor. And if I am, I'll have my gun working. And I won't miss. One or two of you are going to drop. He surveyed them with a quick glance, which seemed to linger on each face. I don't know who'll go first. But now I'm going to walk straight for that door, and I'm going out of it. He moved slowly, deliberately toward the door, and around the table. Still they did not shoot. Bard commanded the voice which had spoken from nowhere before. Stop where you are. Are you fool enough to think I'll let you go? Are you William Drew? I am, and you are—the son of John Bard. Are you in this house? I am. Listen to me for thirty seconds. Not for three. Sally, go out of this room and through that door. There was a grim command in his voice. It started her moving against her will. She paused and looked back with an imploring gesture. Go on, he repeated, and she passed out of the door and stood there, a glimmering figure against the night. Still there was not a shot fired, though all those guns were trained on Bard. You've got me, Drew, he called, but I've got you and your hirelings, all of you, and I'm going to take you to hell with me—to hell! He jerked his gun up and fired, not at a man, for the bullet struck the thin chain which held the gasoline lamp suspended, struck it with a clang, and it rushed down to the table. It struck, but not with the loud explosion which Bard had expected. There was a dull report, as of a shot fired at a great distance, the scream of Sally from the door, and then fire spurred it from the lamp across the table, whipped in a flame to the ceiling, and licked against the walls. It shot to all sides, but it shot high, and every man was down on his face. Anthony, scarcely believing that he was still alive, rushed for the door, with a cry of agony ringing in his ears from the voice beyond the room. One man in all that crowd was near enough, or had the courage enough to obey the master even to the uttermost. The gaunt form of Calamity Ben blocked the doorway in front of Bard, blocked it with poised revolver. Halt, he yelled, but the other rushed on. Calamity whipped the gun down and fired, but even before the trigger was pulled he was sagging toward the floor, for Bard had shot to kill. Over the prostrate form of the cow-puncher he leapt, and into the night, where the white face of Sally greeted him. Outside the red inferno of that room, as if the taste of blood had maddened him, he raised his arms and shouted, like one crying a wild prayer. William drew. William drew. Come out to me. Small, strong hands gripped his wrist, and turned him away from the house. You fool, cried Sally, ride for it. You've raised your hell at last. I knew you would. Red light flared in all the windows of the dining-room. Shouts and groans and cursing poured out of them. Bard turned and followed her out toward the stable on the run, and he heard her moaning as she ran. I knew it. I knew it. She mounted her horse which was tethered near the barn. He chose at random the first horse he reached, a gray, threw on his back the saddle which hung from the peg behind, mounted, and they were off through the night. No thought, no direction, but only in blind speed there seemed to be the hope of salvation. A mile, two miles, dropped behind them. And then in an open stretch, for he had outridden her somewhat, Anthony reigned back, caught the bridle of her horse, and pulled it down to a sharp trot. Why have you come? Their faces were so close that even through the night he could see the grim set of her lips. Ain't you raised your hell? The hell you was hungry to raise? Don't you need help? What I've done is my own doing. I'll take the burden of it. You'll take the halter for it. That's what you'll take. The whole range will rise for this. You're already marked. Everywhere you've gone you've made an enemy. They'll be out to get you, Nash, Boardman, the whole gang. Let it come. I'd do this all over again. Born gunman, eh? Bard, you ain't got a week to live. It was fierceness. It was a reproach rather than sorrow. Then let me go my own way. Why do you follow, Sally? Do you know these mountains? No, but then they'd run you down in twelve hours. Where'll you head for? He said the first thought that entered his mind. I'll go to the old house, the drew house, on the other side of the range. That ain't bad. Know the shortcut? What cut? We can make it in five hours over one trail. But of course you don't know. Nobody but old Dan and me ever knowed it. Let go my bridle and ride like hell. She jerked the reins away from him and galloped off at full speed. He followed. Sally he called. But she kept straight ahead, and he followed, shouting, imploring her to go back. Finally he settled to the chase, resolved on overtaking her. It was no easy task, for she rode like a centaur, and she knew the way. End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 of Trelin by Max Brand This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, USA. Chapter 31 Nesh starts the finish. Through the windows and the door the cow-punchers fled from the red spurt of the flames, each man for himself, except Shorty Kilrain, who stopped, gathered the lanky frame of calamity been into his arms, and staggered out with his burden. The great form of William Drew loomed through the night. His hand on the shoulder of Shorty he cried, is he badly burned? Shot, said Kilrain bitterly, by the tender foot, done for. It was strange to hear the big voice go shrill with pain. Shot? By Anthony? Give him to me. Kilrain lowered his burden to the ground. You've got him murdered. Ain't you through with him? Calamity, he was my pal. But the big man thrust him aside, and knelt by the stricken cow-puncher. He commanded, gather the boys, form a line of buckets from the pump, fight that fire, it hasn't a hold on the house yet. The habit of obedience persisted in Kilrain. Under the glow of the fire, excited by the red light, the other men stood, irresolute, eager for action, but not knowing what to do. A picture came back to him of a ship laboring in a storm, the huddling men on the deck, the mate on the bridge, shrieking his orders through a megaphone. He cupped his hands at his mouth, and began to bark orders. The men obeyed on the run. Some rushed for the kitchen and secured buckets. Two manned the big pump, and started a great gush of water. In a moment a steady stream was being flung by the foremost men of the line against the smoking walls, and even the ceiling of the dining-room. So far it was the oil itself which had made most of the flame and smoke. And now, although the big table was on fire, the main structure of the house was hardly touched. They caught it in time, and worked with a cheer, swinging the buckets from hand to hand, shouting as the flames fell little by little until the floor of the room was awash, the walls gave back clouds of steam, and the only fire was that which smoldered along the ruined table. Even this went out, hissing at last, and they came back with blackened, singed faces to calamity and drew. The rancher had torn away the coat and shirt of the wounded man, and now, with much labor, was twisting a tight bandage around his chest. At every turn calamity groaned feebly. Kilrain dropped beside his partner, taking the head between his hands. "'Calamity, pal,' he said. "'How'd you let a tenderfoot, a damn tenderfoot, do this?' The other side. I don't know. I had him covered. I should have sent him to hell. But sure shooting is better than fast shooting. He nailed me fair and square while I was blocking him at the door. How do you feel?' "'Done for, shorty. But damn glad that—' His voice died away in a horrible whisper, and bubbles of red foam rose to his lips. "'God,' groaned shorty, and then called loudly, as if the strength of his voice might recall the other. "'Calamity!' The eyes of calamity rolled up. The wide lips twisted over formless words. There was no sound from his mouth. Someone was holding a lantern, whose light fell full on the silent struggle. It was Nash. His habitual sneer groaned more malevolent than ever. "'What of the feller who'd done it, shorty?' he suggested. "'So help me, God,' said the cattleman, with surprising softness. The range ain't big enough to keep him away from me.' Drew, completing his bandage, said, "'That's enough of such talk, Nash. Let it drop there. Here, Kilrain, take his feet. Help me into the house with him.' They moved in. They rest trailing behind like sheep after a bell-weather, and it was astonishing to see the care with which Big Drew handled his burden, placing it at last on his own four-poster bed. "'The old man's all busted up,' said little Duffy to Nash. I'd never have guessed he was so fond of calamity.' "'You're a fool,' answered Nash. "'It ain't calamity he cares about. Then what the devil is it?' "'I don't know. We're going to see some queer things around here.' Drew, having disposed of the wounded man, carefully, raising his head on a pillow, turned to the others. "'Who saw Ben shot?' "'I did,' said Kilrain, who was making his way to the door. "'Come back here. Are you sure you saw the shot fired? I seen the tender foot, dam his eyes, whip up his gun and take a snap shot while he was running for the door where calamity stood.' Nash raised his lantern high, so that the light fell full on the face of Drew. The rancher was more gray than ever. He said, with almost an appeal in his voice, mightn't it have been one of the other boys shooting at random? The tone of Kilrain raised and grew ugly. Are you trying to cover the tender foot, Drew?' The big man made a fierce gesture. Why should I cover him? Because you've been acting damn queer,' answered Nash. "'Ah, you're here again, Nash. I know you hate Bard because he was too much for you.' He got the start of me, but I'll do a lot of finishing.' Kilrain, called Drew, your calamity's best friend, ride for Eldara, and bring back Dr. Young. Quick! We're going to pull Ben through.' "'Just a waste of time,' said Nash, coolly. He's got one foot in hell already.' "'You've said too much, Nash. Kilrain, are you going?' "'I'll stop for the doctor at Eldara, but then I'll keep on riding.' "'What do you mean?' "'Nothing.' "'I'll go with you,' said Nash, and turned with the other.' "'Stop,' called Drew. "'Boys, I know what you have planned, but let the law take care of this. Remember, we were the aggressors against young Bard. He came peaceably into the house, and I tried to hold him here. What would you have done in his place?' "'These a dozen men know how peaceable he is,' said Nash, dryly. Wherever he's gone on the range he's raised hell. He's cut out for a killer, and Glendon in Eldara knows it. I'll talk to Glendon. In the meantime you fellas keep your hands off Bard. In the first place, because if you take the law into your own hands, you'll have me against you. Understand?' Kilrain and Nash glowered at him for a moment, and then backed through the door. As they hurried to the barn Kilrain asked, "'What makes the chief act so soft to that hell-raiser?' "'If you have a fella cut out for your own meat,' answered Nash. Do you want to have anyone else step in and take your meal away?' "'But you, and me, Steve, we'll get this bird. We'll get Glendon behind us first. Why him?' "'Play safe. Glendon can swear us in as deputies to... Apprehend, as he calls it, this Bard. Apprehend in a fella like Bard simply means to shoot him down, and ask him to come along afterward. See?' "'Nash, you got a great head. You ought to be one of these lawyers. There ain't nothing you can't find a way out of. But we'll Glendon do it. He'll do what I ask him to do. Friend of yours?' "'Better than a friend. Got something on him?' "'These are your questions. They ain't polite, shorty,' grinned Nash. "'All right. You do the leading in this game. I'll just follow suit. But lay your course with nothing but the top sails flying. Because I've got an idea we're going to hit a hell of a storm before we get back to port, Steve.' For my part,' answered Nash,,'I'm getting used to rough weather.' They saddled their horses and cut across the hills straight for Aldara. Kilrain spurred viciously, and the Rhone had hard work keeping up. "'Hold in,' called Nash, after a time. Save your Haas, shorty. This ain't no short trail. Did you notice the Haas's when we was in the barn?' "'Nope.' Bard took Duffy's gray, and the gray can go like the devil. Haas lived in—'That's another little mark on Bard's score.' End of CHAPTER XXXII To apprehend a man. As if to make up for its silence of the blast when the two reached it late the night before, Aldara was going full that evening. Kilrain went straight to Dr. Young, to bring him later to join Nash at the house of Deputy Glendon. The front of the deputy's house was utterly dark, but Nash, unabashed, knocked loudly on the door, and went immediately to the rear of the place. He was in time to see a light wink out at an upper window of the two-story shack. He slipped back, chuckling among the trees, and waited until the door slammed, and a dark figure ran noiselessly down the steps and out into the night. Then he returned, still chuckling, to the front of the house, and banged on the door again. A window above him, raised at length, and a drawing voice, apparently overcome with sleep, called down. What's up in Aldara? Nash answered. Everything's wrong. Deputy Glendon, he sits up in the back room playing poker and hitting red eye. No wonder Aldara's going to hell. A muffled cursing rolled down to the cow-puncher, and then a sharp challenge. Who's there? Nash, you blockhead. Nash! cried a relieved voice. Come in, confound you. I thought—no matter what I thought—come in. Nash opened the door and went up the stairs. The deputy met him, clad in a bath-robe and carrying a lamp. Under the bath-robe he was fully dressed. Thought your game was called, eh? Grinned the cattleman. Sure. I had a tidy little thing in blackjack running, and was pulling the iron boys one after another. Why didn't you tip me off? You could have sat in with us. Nope. I'm here on business. Let's have it. He led the way back into the room, and placed the lamp on a table littered with cards, and a black bottle looming in the center. Drink? Nope. I said I came on business. What kind? Bard? I thought so. I want a posse. What's he done? Killed Calamity Ben at Drew's place. Started a fire that near burned the house, and lifted Duffy's horse. Glendon whistled softly. Nice little start. Sure, and it's just beginning for this Bard. I'll go out to Drew's place, and see what he's done. And then start after him with a gang? Sure. By that time he'll be a thousand miles away. Well, I'm running this little party. Let me get a gang together. You can swear him in, and put me in charge. I'll guarantee to get him before morning. Glendon shook his head. It ain't legal, Steve. You know that. What the hell with legality? That's what you say, but I got to hold my job. You'll do your part going to Drew's place with Doc Young. He'll be here with Shorty Kilrain in a minute. And let you go after Bard? Right. Far as I know, you may just shoot him down, and then come back and say you've done it because he resisted arrest. Well, you admit that's what you want, Steve? Absolute. Well, partner, it can't be done. That ain't apprehended a man. It's just plain murder. Do you think you could ever catch that bird alive? I don't know. I'd try. Never in a thousand years. He don't know the country. He'll travel in a circle, and I'll write him down. He's got somebody with him that knows the country better than you and me. Who? The face of Nash, twisted into an ugly grimace. Sally Fortune. The hell. It is, but it's true. It ain't possible. Sally ain't the kind to make a fool of herself about any man, let alone a gunfighter. That's what I thought, but I seen her back up this Bard against a roomful of men. And she'll keep on backing him till he's got his toes turned up. That's another reason for you to get Bard, eh? Well, I can't send you after him, Nash. That's final. Not a bit. I know too much about you, Glendon. The glance of the other raised slowly, fixed on Nash, and then lowered to the floor. He produced papers and Durham, rolled and lighted his cigarette, and inhaled a long puff. So that's the game, Steve? I hate to do it. Let that go. You'll run the limit on this? Listen, Glendon, I've got to get this Bard. He's outridden me, outshot me, outgamed me, outlucked me, outgassed me, and taken Sally. He's mine. He belongs all to me. Do you see that? I'm only seeing one thing just now. I know. You think I'm double-crossing you. Maybe I am. But I'm desperate, Glendon. After all, Muse the Deputy, you'd simply be doing work I'd have to do later. You're right about this Bard. He'll never be taken alive. Good old Glendon. I knew you'd see the light. I'll go out and get the boys I want in ten minutes. Wait here. Shorty and Doc Young will come in a minute. One more thing. When you get to Drew's place, you'll find him acting queer. What about? I don't know. It's a bad mess. You see, he's after this Bard himself. The way I figure it, he wants him left alone. He'd raise hell if he knew Apocy was after the Tenderfoot. Drew's a bad one to get against me. I know. You think I'm double-crossing? I'll do it. But this square's all scores between us, Steve. Right. It leaves the debt on my side. And you know I've never dodged an IOU. Drew may talk queer. He'll tell you that Bard done all that work in self-defense. Did he? The point is he killed a man and stole a house. No matter what comes of it, he's got to be arrested, don't he? And shot down while resistant arrest? Steve, I'd hate to have you out after me like this. But you won't listen to Drew? Not this one time. But Lord, man, I hate to face him if he's on the war-path. Who'll you take with you? Shorty, of course. He was Calamity Ben's pal. The rest will be, don't laugh, Butch Conklin and his gang. Butch, hold yourself together. That's what I mean. Butch Conklin. Have you dropped him the other night? Self-defense, and he knows it. I can find Butch, and I can make him go with me. Besides, he's out for Bard himself. The deputy said, with much meaning, You can do a lot of queer things, Nash. Forget it, Glendon. I will for a while. Do you really think I can let you take out Butch and his gunmen again, Bard? Why, they're ten times worse than the Tenderfoot. Maybe, but there's nothing proved against them, nothing but a bit of cattle-lifting, maybe, and things like that. The point is, they're all hard men, and with them along I can't help but get Bard. Murder ain't proved on Butch and his men, but it will be before long. Wait till it's proved. In the meantime, use them all. You've a long head, Nash. Glendon, I'm making the biggest play of my life. I'm off to find Butch. Will Stan Firm withdrew? I won't hear a word he says. Salong, be back in ten minutes. Wait for me. He was as good as his word, even before the ten minutes had elapsed he was back, and behind him followed a crew of heavy thumping boots up the stairs of Glendon's house, and into the room where he sat with Dr. Young and Shorty Kilrain. They rose, but not from respect, when Nash entered with Conklin and his four ill-famed followers behind. The soiled bandage on the head of Butch was far too thick to allow his hat to sit in its normal position. It was perched high on top, and secured in place by a bit of string which passed from side to side under the chin. Behind him came Lovell, an almost albino type with straw-colored hair, and eyes bleached and passionless. The vacuous smile was never gone from his lips. More feared and more hated than Conklin himself was Isaac's. The latter was fastidious, wore a blue striped vest, without a coat to obscure it, and about his throat was knotted a flaming vermilion necktie, fastened in place with a diamond stick-pin, obviously the spoil of some recent robbery. Glendon, watching, ground his teeth. McNamara followed. He had been a squatter, but his family had died of a fever, and McNamara's mind had been unsettled ever since. Whiskey had finished the work of sending him on the downward path with Conklin's little crew of desperados. Men shrank from facing those two bright, wandering eyes, yet it was from pity almost as much as horror. Finally came Eufort. He was merely a round-faced boy of nineteen, proud of the distinguished bad company he kept. He was that weak-minded type which is only strong when it becomes wholly evil. With different leadership he would have become simply a tobacco-chewing hangar on at Crossroads Saloons and General Merchandise Stores. As it was, feeling dignified by the brotherhood of crime into which he had been admitted as a full member, and eager to prove his qualifications, he was as dangerous as any member of the crew. The three men who were already in the room had been prepared by Glendon for this new arrival, but the fact was almost too much for their credence. Consequently they rose, and Dr. Young muttered at the ear of Glendon. Is it possible, Deputy Glendon, that you're going to use these fellows? A thief to catch a thief, whispered Glendon in reply. He said aloud, Butch, I've been looking for you for a long time, but I never really expected to see you quite as close as this. You said it, Grand Butch. I ain't been watching for you real close, but now that I see you, you look more or less like a man should look. How are you, Glendon? He held out his hand, but the deputy, shifting his position, seemed to overlook the grimy, proffered palm. You fellows know that you're wanted by the law, he said, frowning on them. A grim meaning rose in the vacuous eyes of Lovell. Isaacs caressed his diamond pen, smiling in a sickly fashion. McNamara's wandering stare fixed and grew unhumanly bright. Euphort openly dropped his hand on his gun-butt, and stood sullenly defiant. You know that you're wanted, and you know why, went on Glendon. But I've decided to give you a chance to prove your white men and useful citizens. Nash has already told you what we want. It's work for seven men against one, but that one is apt to give you all plenty to do. If you are successful, he stammered a little over the right word. What you have done in the past will be forgotten. Hold your right hands up, and repeat after me. And they repeated the oath after him in a broken, drawing chorus, stumbling over the formal, legal phraseology. He ended, and then, Nash, you're in charge of the gang. Do what you want to with them, and remember that you're to get barred back in town unharmed, if possible. Butch Conklin smiled, and the smile spread grimly from face to face among the gang. Evidently this point had already been elucidated to them by Nash, who now mustered them out of the house and assembled them on their horses in the street below. Which way do we travel? Ask Shorty kill Reign, reigning close beside the leader, as though he were anxious to disestablish any relationship with the rest of the party. Two ways, answered Nash. Of course I don't know what way Bard headed, because he's got the girl with him. But I figure it this way. If a tenderfoot knows any part of the range at all, he'll go in that direction after he's in trouble. I've seen it work out before. So I think Bard may have ridden straight for the old Drew place on the other side of the range. I know a shortcut over the hills. We can reach there by morning. Kill Reign, you'll go there with me. It may be that Bard will go near the place, but not right to it. Chances may be good that he'll put up at some place near the old ranch house, but not right on the spot. Jerry Wood, he's got a house about four or five miles to the north of Drew's old ranch. Butch, you take your men and ride to Wood's place. Then switch south and ride for Partridge's store. If we miss him at Drew's old house, we'll go on, and you join us at Partridge's store, and then we'll double back. He'll be somewhere inside that circle and Aldera. You can lay on that. Now boys, are your Haas's fresh? They were. Then ride, and don't spare the spurs. Haas's flesh is cheaper than your own hides. The cavalcade separated and galloped in two directions through the town of Aldera. END OF CHAPTER XXXII. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org. Being by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, USA. CHAPTER XXXIII. Nothing new. Glendon and Dr. Young struck out for the ranch of William Drew, but they held a moderate pace, and it was already gray dawn before they arrived. Yet even at that hour several windows of the house were lighted. They were led directly to Drew's room. The big man welcomed them at the door, with a hand raised for silence. He seemed to have aged greatly during the night, but between the black shadows beneath and the shaggy brows above, his eyes gleamed more brightly than ever. About his mouth the lines of resolution were worn deep by his vigil. He seems to be sleeping rather well, though you hear his breathing? It was a soft, but ominously rattling sound. Through the lungs the doctor said instantly, the cow-puncher was completely covered, except for his head and feet. On the latter, oddly enough, were still his grimy boots, blackening the white sheets on which they rested. I tried to work them off. You see, the laces are untied, explained Drew, but the poor fellow recovered consciousness at once, and struggled to get his feet free. He said that he wants to die with his boots on. You tried his pulse, and his temperature? whispered the doctor. Yes, the temperature is not much above normal. The pulse is extremely rapid and very faint. Is that a bad sign? Very bad. Drew winced and caught his breath so sharply that the others stared at him. It might have been thought that he had just heard his own death sentence pronounced. He explained, then has been with me for a number of years. It breaks me up to think of losing him like this. The doctor took the pulse of calamity with lightly touching fingers that did not waken the sleeper. Then he felt with equal caution the forehead of Ben. Well, asked Drew eagerly, the chances are about one out of ten. It drew a groan from the rancher. But there is still some hope. The doctor shook his head and carefully unwound the bandages. He examined the wound with care, and then made a dressing, and recovered the purple spot, so small that a five-cent piece would have covered it. Tell me, demanded Drew, as young turned at length. The bullet passed right through the body, eh? Yes. He ought to have been dead hours ago. I can't understand it. But since he's alive, we'll go on hoping. Hope? whispered Drew. It was as if he had received the promise of heaven such brightness fell across his haggard face. There's no use attempting to explain, answered young. An ordinary man would have died almost instantly, but the lungs of these rangers seem to be lined with leather. I suppose they are fairly embalmed with excessive cigarette smoking. The constant work in the open air toughens them wonderfully. As I said, the chances are about one out of ten, but I'm only astonished that there is any chance at all. Doctor, I will make you rich for this. My dear sir, I have done nothing. It has been your instant care that saved him, as far as he has saved. I'll tell you what to continue doing for him. In a half an hour I must leave. Drew smiled faintly. Not till he's well or dead, doctor. I didn't catch that. You won't leave the room, young, till this man is dead or on the way to recovery. Come, come, Mr. Drew. I have patients who, I tell you, there is no one else. Until a decision comes in this case, your world is bounded by the four walls of this room. That's final. Is it possible that you would attempt? Anything is possible with me. Make up your mind. You shall not leave this man till you've done all that's humanly possible for him. Mr. Drew, I appreciate your anxiety, but this is stepping too far. I have an officer of the law with me. Better do what he says, doc, said Glendon uneasily. Don't mouth words, ordered Drew sternly. There lies a sick man. Get to work. In this I am as unalterable as the rocks. The bill will be large, said young sullenly, for he began to see that it was as futile to resist the gray giant as it would have been to attempt to stop the progress of a landslide. I'll pay you double what you wish to charge. Does this man's life mean so much to you? A priceless thing. If you save him, you take the burden of murder off the soul of another. I'll do what I can. I know you will. He laid a broad hand on young Shoulder. Doctor, you must do more than you can. You must accomplish the impossible. I tell you it is impossible for this man to die. He must live. He turned to Glendon. I suppose you want the details of what happened here. Right. Follow me. Doctor, I'll be gone only a moment. He led the way into an adjoining room and lighted a lamp. The sudden flare cast deep shadows on the face leaning above, and Glendon started. For the moment it seemed to him that he was seeing a face which had looked on hell and lived to speak of it. Mr. Drew, he said, you'd better hit the hay yourself. You look pretty badly done up. The other looked up with a singular smile, clenching and unclenching his fingers as if he strove to relax muscles which had been tense for hours. Glendon, the surface of my strength has not been scratched. I could keep going every hour for ten days if it would save the life of the poor fellow who lies in there. He took a long breath. Now let's get after this business. I'll tell you the naked facts. Anthony Bard was approaching my house yesterday, and word of his coming was brought to me. For reasons of my own it was necessary that I should detain him here for an uncertain length of time. For other reasons it was necessary that I should go to any length to accomplish my ends. I had another man, Lawler, who looked something like me, take my place in the eyes of Bard. But Bard grew suspicious of the deception. Finally a girl entered, and called Lawler by name as they were sitting at the table with all the men around them. Bard rose at once with his gun in his hand. Put yourself in his place. He found that he had been deceived. He knew he was surrounded by armed men. He must have felt like a cornered rat. He drew his gun and started for the door, warning the others that he meant to go the limit in order to get free. Mind you, it was no sudden gunplay. Then I ordered the men to keep him at all cost within the room. He saw that they were prepared to obey me, and then he took a desperate chance, and shot down the gasoline lamp which hung over the table. In the explosion and fire which resulted, he made for the door. One man blocked his way, leveled a revolver at him, and then Bard shot in self-defense and downed Calamity Ben. I ask you, Glendon, is that self-defense? The other drummed his fingertips nervously against his chin. He was thinking hard, and every thought was of Steve Nash. So far, all right, I ain't asking your reasons for doing some pretty queer things, Mr. Drew. I'll stand every penalty of the law, sir. I only ask that you see punishment falls where it is deserved only. The case is clear. Bard acted in self-defense. Glendon was desperate. At length he said, when a man's tried in court they bring up his past career. This filler Bard has gone along the range, raising a different brand of hell everywhere he went. He had a run-in with two gunmen, Ferguson and Conklin. He had Eldara within an ace of a riot the first night he hit the town. Mr. Drew, that chap looks the part of a killer. He acts the part of a killer. And by God, he is a killer. You seem to have come here with your mind already made up, Glendon, said the rancher coldly. Not a bit, but go through the whole town of Eldara and ask the boys what they think of this tenderfoot. They feel so strong that if he was jailed they'd lynch him. Drew raised a clenched fist, and then let his arm fall suddenly limp at his side. Then surely he must not be jailed. Want me to let him wander around loose and kill another man? In self-defense? I want you to use reason and mercy, Glendon. From what I've heard you ain't the man to talk of mercy, Mr. Drew. The other, as if he had received a stunning blow, slipped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. It was a long moment before he could speak, and when his hands were lowered, Glendon winced at what he saw in the other's face. God knows I'm not, said Drew. Suppose we let the shooting of Calamity go. What of Haaslifton, sir? Horse-dealing? Impossible. Anthony, he could not be guilty of it. Ask your man Duffy. Vards riding Duffy's gray right now. But Duffy will press no claim, said the rancher eagerly. I'll see to that. I'll pay him ten times the value of his horse. Glendon, you can't punish a man for a theft, of which Duffy will not complain. Drew, you know what the boys on the range think of a Haaslif. It ain't the price of what they steal. It's the low-down soul of the dog who would steal it. It ain't the money. But what's a man without a Haas on the range? Suppose his Haas is stole while he's a hundred miles from nowhere. What does it mean? You know, it means dying of thirst and going through a hundred hells before the finish. I say shooting a man is nothing compared to stealing a Haas. A man that'll steal a Haas will shoot his own brother. That's what he'll do. But I don't need to tell you. You know it better than me. What was it you'd done with your own hands to Lewis Borgon, the horse-wrestler, back ten years ago? A deep voice answered Glendon. What has set you on the trail of Bard? His own wrongdoing. The rancher waved a hand of careless dismissal. I know you, Glendon, he said. The deputy stirred in his chair, and then cleared his throat. He said, in a rising tone, What do you know? I don't think you really care to hear it. To put it lightly, Glendon, you've done many things for money. I don't accuse you of them. But if you want to do one thing more, you can make more money at a stroke than you've made in all the rest. With all his soul the deputy was cursing Nash. But now the thing was done, and he must see it through. He rose, glowering at Drew. I've stood a pile already from you. This is one beyond the limit. Bribery ain't my way, Drew, no matter what I've done before. It's war, then? Then Glendon answered, forcing his tone into fierceness. Anything you want. Any way you want it. Glendon said the other with a sudden lowering of his voice. Has some other man been talking to you? Who? Me? Certainly not. Don't lie. Drew, rain up. There's one thing no man can say to me, and get away with it. I tell you, man, I'm holding myself in harder than I've ever done before. Answer me. He did not even rise, but Glendon, his hands twitching close to the butt of his gun, moved step by step away from those keen eyes. Answer me. Nash, he's been to Eldara. I might have known. He told you about this? Yes. And you're going the full limit of your power against Bard. I'll do nothing that ain't been done by others before. Glendon, there have been cowardly legal murders before. Tell me at least that you will not send a posse to apprehend Bard until it's learned whether or not Ben will die, and whether or not Duffy will press charges of horse-stealing. Glendon was at the door. He fumbled behind him, found the knob, and swung it open. If you double-cross me, said Drew, all that I've ever done to any man before will be nothing to what I'll do to you, Glendon. When the deputy cried, his voice gone shrill and high. I ain't done nothing that ain't been done before, and he vanished through the doorway. Drew followed and looked after the deputy, who galloped like a fugitive over the hills. Shall I follow him? He muttered to himself, but a faint groan reached him from the bedroom. He turned on his heel and went back to Calamity Ben and the doctor. End of Chapter 33