 CHAPTER IX BATTLELIGHT O'Brien pressed close to Barry. The partner he said rapidly, You're clear now. You're clear of more hell that you ever dreamed. Now climb that hallsa yours and feed him leather till you get clear of Brownsville. And if I was you, I'd never come within a day's ride of the three bees again. The mild brown eyes widened. I don't like crowds, murmured Barry. Your wise kid grinned the bartender. Hell of wiser than you know right now. On your way. And he turned to follow the crowd into the saloon. But Jerry Strand stood at the swinging doors watching. And he saw Barry linger behind. Where you come? And he called. I got an engagement, answered the meek voice. You got another engagement here, mocked Strand. Understand? The other hesitated for an instant, and then sighed deeply. I suppose I'll stay, he murmured, and walked into the bar. Jerry Strand was smiling in the way that showed his teeth. As Barry passed, he said softly, I see we ain't going to have no trouble, you and me. He moved to clap his strong hand on the shoulder of the smaller man. Oddly enough the hand missed. For Barry swerved from beneath it as a wolf swerves from the shadow of a falling branch. No perceptible effort. No sudden start of tensed muscles. But a movement so smooth that it was almost unnoticeable. But the hand of Strand fell through thin air. You're quick, he said. If you as as quick with your hands as you are with your feet. Barry paused, and the melancholy brown eyes dwelt on the face of Strand. All hell snorted the other, and turned on his heel to the bar. Drink up, he commanded. A shout and a snarl from the further end of the room. A wolf by God yelled one of the men. The owner of the animal made his way with unobtrusive swiftness the length of the room, and stood between the dog and a man who fingered the butt of his gun nervously. He won't hurt you none, murmured that softly assuring voice. Hell, he won't respond at the other. He took a pass at my leg just now and damn near took it off. Dot teeth like the blades of a pocket knife. You're on a cold trail, Sam, broke in one of the others. That ain't any wolf. Look at him now. The big shaggy animal had slung to the feet of his master, and with head abased, stared furtively up into Barry's face. A gesture served as sufficient command, and he slipped shadow-like into the corner and crouched with his head on his paws, and the incandescent green of his eyes glimmering. Barry sat down in a chair nearby. O'Brien was happily spinning bottles and glasses the length of the bar. There was a chiming of glass and the rumble of contented voices. "'Red Isle around,' said the loud voice of Jerry Strand, but there's one out. Who's out? Oh, it's him.' O'Brien, lemonade for the lady, it brought a laugh, a deep, good-natured laugh, and then a chorus of mockery. But Barry stepped unconfused to the bar, accepted the glass of lemonade, and when the others down their fire-water, he sipped his drink thoughtfully. Outside the wind had risen, and it shook the hotel, and carried a score of faint voices as it whirled round the corners and threw cracks. Perhaps it was one of those voices which made the big dog lift its head from its paws and whine softly. Surely it was something he heard which caused Barry to straighten at the bar, and Cantus had slightly to one side. But as certainly no one else in the bar room heard it. Barry sat down his glass. "'Mr. Strand,' he called, and the gentle voice carried faintly down through the uproar of the bar. Sister wants to speak to you,' suggested O'Brien to Strand. "'Well, roar the ladder. What do you want?' The others were silent to listen, and they smiled in anticipation. "'If you don't mind much,' said the musical voice, I think I'll be moving along. There is an obscure little devil living in all of us. It makes the child break his own toys. It makes the husband strike the helpless wife. It makes the man beat the cringing, whining dog. The greatest of American writers has called it the imp of the perverse, and that devil came in Jerry Strand, and made his heart small and cold. If he had been by nature the bully and the ruffian, there would have been no point in all that followed. But the heart of Jerry Strand was ordinarily as warm as the yellow sunshine itself. And it was a common saying in the three B's that Jerry Strand would take from a child what he would not endure from a mountain lion. Women loved Jerry Strand, and children would crowd about his knees, but this day the small demon was in him. "'You want to be moving along?' mimicked the devil in Jerry Strand. "'Well, you wait a while. I ain't through with you yet.' "'Maybe?' he paused and searched his mind. "'You've given me a fall, and maybe you can give the rest of us a laugh.' The chuckle of appreciation went up the bar and down it again. "'I want to ask you,' went on the devil in Jerry Strand. "'Where you got your horse?' "'He was running wild,' came the gentle answer. "'So I took a walk one day and brought him in.'" A pause. "'Baby,' grinned the big man, you creased him. "'For it is one of the most difficult things in the world to capture a wild horse. And some hunters, in their desperation at seeing the wonderful animals escape, have tried to crease them. That is, they strive to shoot so that the bullet will barely graze the top of the animal's vertebrae, just behind the ears, stunning the horse, and making it helpless for capture. But, necessarily, such shots are made from a distance, and little short of a miracle is needed to make the bullet strike true. For a fraction of an inch too low means death." So another laugh of appreciation ran around the bar room at the mention of creasing. No answered Barry. I went out with a halter, and after a while Satan got used to me and followed me home. They waited only long enough to draw deep breath. Then came a long yell of delight. But the obscure devil was growing stronger and stronger and strannier. He beat on the bar until he got silence. Then he leaned over to meet the eyes of Barry. That, he remarked through his teeth, is a damned lie. There's only one way of answering that word in the mountain desert, and Barry did not take it. The melancholy brown eyes widened. He sighed, and raising his glass of lemonade, sipped it slowly. Came a sick silence in the bar room. Men turned their eyes toward each other, and then flashed them away again. It is not good that one who has the eyes and the tongue of a man should take water from another, even from Jerry Strand. And even Jerry Strand withdrew his eyes slowly from his prey and shuddered. The sight of the most gristly death is not so horrible as cowardness. And the devil, which was still strong in Strand, made him look about for a new target. Barry was removed from all danger by an incredible barrier. He found that new target at once. For his glance reached to the corner of the room, and found there the greenish, glimmering eyes of the dog. He smote upon the bar. Is this a damned cannily shouted? Do I got a drink in a barnyard? What's that dog doing here? And he caught up the heavy little whiskey glass and hurled it at the crouching dog. It thudded heavily, but it brought no yelp of pain. Instead, a black thunderbolt leaped from the corner and lunged down the room. It was the silence of the attack that made it terrible, and Strand cursed and pulled his gun. He could never have used it. He was a whole half-second too late. But before the dog sprang, a voice cut in. Bart. It checked the animal in its very leap. It landed on the floor and slid on stiffly extended legs to the feet of Strand. Bart rang the voice again. And the beast, flattening to the floor, crawled backwards inch by inch. It was slavering, and there was a raving madness in its eyes. Look at it, cried Strand, by God it's mad. And he raised his gun to draw the bead. Wait called the same voice, which had checked the spring of the dog. Surely it could not have come from the lips of Barry. It held a resonance of chiming metal. It was not loud, but it carried like a brazen bell. Don't do it, Strand. And it came to every man in the bar room, that it was unhealthy to stand between the two men at that instant. A sudden path opened from Barry to Strand. Bart came to command again. Heel. The dog obeyed with a slinking swiftness. Jerry Strand put up his gun and smiled. I don't take a start on no man, he announced quite pleasantly. I don't need to. But you yellow-hearted hound, get out from between. When I make my draw, I'm going to kill that damned wolf. Now the fighting face of Jerry Strand was well known in the three bees, and it was something for men to remember until they died in a peaceful bed. Yet there was not a glance from the bystanders for Strand. They stood back against a wall, flattening themselves, and they stared, fascinated, at the slender stranger. Not that his face had grown ugly by a sudden metamorphosis. It was more beautiful than ever, for the man was smiling. It was his eyes which held them. Behind the brown a light was growing, a yellow and unearthly glimmer, which one felt might be seen on the darkest night. There was none of the coward in Jerry Strand. He looked full into that yellow, glimmering, changing light. He looked steadily, and a strange feeling swept over him. No, it was not fear. Long experience had taught him that there was not another man in the three bees, with the exception of his own terrible brother, who could get a gun out of the leather faster than he. But now it seemed to Jerry Strand that he was facing something more than mortal speed and human strength and surity. He could not tell in what the feeling was based. But it was a giant, dim foreboding, holding dominion over other men's lives, and it sent a train of chilly weakness through his blood. It's a habit of mine to Jerry Strand to kill mad dogs when I see him. And he smiled again. They stood for another long instant facing each other. It was plain that every muscle in Strand's body was growing tense. The very smile was frozen on his lips. When he moved at last, it was a convulsive jerk of his arm. And it was said afterward that his gun was all clear of the leather before the calm stranger stirred. No eye followed what happened. Can the eye follow such speed as the cracking lash of a whip? There was only one report. The forefinger of Strand did not touch his trigger, but the gun slipped down and dangled loosely from his hand. He made a pace forward with his smile groaned to an idiotic thing and a patch of red sprang out in the center of his breast. Then he lurched headlong to the floor. CHAPTER X Fatty Matthews came panting through the doors. He was one of those men who have a leisurely build and a purely American desire for action, so that he was always hurrying and always puffing. If he mounted a horse, sweat started out from every pore. If he swallowed a glass of red eye, he breathed hard thereafter. Yet he was capable of great and sustained exertions, as many and many a man in the three bees could testify. He was ashamed of his fat. Imagine the soul of a bald eagle in the body of a poland china sow, and you begin to have some idea of Fatty Matthews. Fat filled his boots as with water, and he made a squinching sound when he walked. Fat rolled along his jowls. Fat made his very forehead flabby. Fat almost buried his eyes. But nothing could conceal the hawk line of his nose or the gleam of those half-buried eyes. His hair was short-cropped, gray, and stood on end like bristles, and he was in the habit of using his panting breath in humming, for that concealed the puffing. So Fatty Matthews came through the doors, and his little concealed eyes darted from face to face. Then he kneeled beside strand. He was humming as he opened Jerry's shirt. He was humming as he pulled from his bag, for Fatty was almost as much a doctor as he was Marshall, Cowpuncher, Miner, and Gambler, a roll of cotton, and another roll of bandages. The crowd grouped around him fascinated, and at his directions some of them brought water, and others raised and turned the body while the Marshall made the bandages. Jerry's strand was unconscious. Fatty Matthews began to interspersed talk in his humming. He was plugged from in front of my beauty, was you, grunted Fatty, and then running the roll of bandage around the wounded man's chest, he hummed the bar of, Sweet Adeline, my Adeline, at night, dear heart, for you I pine. Was Jerry looking the other way when he was spotted, asked Fatty of the bystanders? O'Brien, you seen it? O'Brien cleared his throat. I didn't say nothing, he said mildly, and began to mop his bar, which was already polished beyond belief. Well, muttered Fatty Matthews, all these birds get it, and Jerry was some overdue. Lou, you seen it? Yup. Some drunken bum do it? Lou leaned to the ear of the kneeling Marshall and whispered briefly. Fatty opened his eyes and cursed until his panting forced him to break off and hum. Beat him to the draw, he gasped at length. Jerry's gun was clean out before the stranger made a move, asserted Lou. It ain't possible, murmured the deputy, and hummed softly, in all my dreams, your fair-faced beams. He had it sharply as he finished the bandaging. Where'd he had for? No place answered Lou. He just now went out the door. The deputy swore again, but he had it enlightened. Going to plead self-defense, eh? Big O'Brien leaned over the bar. Listen, Fatty, he said earnestly. There ain't no doubt of it. Jerry had his war-pane on. He tried to kill this fellow berry's wolf. Wolf cut in the deputy Marshall? Dog, I guess, qualified the bartender. I don't know. Anyway, Jerry made all the leads. This berry simply done to finish him. I say, don't put this berry under arrest. You want to keep him here for Max Tram. That's my business, growled Fatty. Hey, half a dozen of you gents. Hook on to Jerry and take him up to a room. I'll be with you in a minute. And while his directions were being obeyed, he trotted heavily up the length of the bar room and out the swinging doors. Outside, he found only one man, and in the act of mounting a black horse. The deputy Marshall made straight for that man until a huge black dog appeared from nowhere, blocking his path. It was a silent dog, but its teeth and eyes set enough to stop Fatty in full career. Are you Barry, he asked? That's me. Come here, Bart. The big dog backed to the other side of the horse without shifting his eyes from the Marshall. The latter gingerly approached the rider, who sat perfectly at ease in the saddle. Most apparently, he was in no haste to leave. Barry said to the deputy, don't make no play when I tell you who I am. I don't mean you no harm, but my name's Matthews, and he drew back the flap of his vest enough to show the glitter of his badge of office. All the time, his little beady eyes watched Barry with bird-like contentness. The rider made not a move. And now Matthews noted more in detail the feminine slunderness of the man and the large, placid eyes. He stepped closer and dropped the confidential hand on the pommel of the saddle. Sonny muttered, I hear you made a clean play inside. Now, I know Stran in his way. He was in wrong. There ain't a doubt of it. And if I held you, you'd get clear on self-defense. So I ain't gonna lay a hand on you. You're free. But one thing more, you cut off there, see? And bear away north from the three bees. You got a horse, that is. And believe me, you'll need him before you're through. He lowered his voice and his eyes bulged with the terror of his tidings. Feed him the leather. Ride the beat hell. Never stop while your horse can raise a trot. And then slide off your horse and get another. Son, in three days, Max Stran will be on your trail. He stepped back and waved his arms. Now, Vamanos, the black stallion flicked back its ears and winced from the outflung hands. But the rider remained in perturbed. I never heard of Max Stran, said Barry. You never heard of Max Stran, echoed the other? But I'd like to meet him, said Barry. The deputy marshal blinked his eyes rapidly, as though he needed to clear his vision. Son, he said hoarsely, I can see your game, but don't make a fall play. If Max Stran gets you, he'll California like a yearlin'. You won't have no chance. You've done for Jerry, there ain't a doubt of that. But Jerry to Max is like a tame cat to a mountain lion lad. I can see you're a stranger to these parts. But ask me your questions and I'll tell you the best way to go. Barry slipped from the saddle. He said, I'd like to know the best place to put up my horse. The deputy marshal was speechless. But I suppose when on Barry, I can stable him over there behind the hotel. Matthews pushed off his sombrero and rubbed his short fingers through his hair. Anger and amazement still choked him, but he controlled himself by a praiseworthy effort. Barry, he said, I don't make you out. Maybe you figure to wait to Max Stran gets to town before you leave. Maybe you think your horse can outrun anything on four feet and maybe it can, but listen to me. Max Stran ain't fast on a trail, but the point about him is that he never leaves it. You can go through rain and over rocks, but you can't never shake Max Stran not once he gets the wind of you. Thanks, returned the gentle voice stranger. I guess maybe he'll be worth meeting. And so saying, he turned on his heel and walked calmly towards the big stables behind the hotel. And at his heels followed the black dog and the black horse. As for Deputy Marshall Matthews, he moistened his lips to whistle. But when he pursed them, not a sound came. He turned at length into the bar room. And as he walked, his eye was vacant. He was humming brokenly. Sweet Adeline, my Adeline, at night, dear heart, for you I pine. Inside he took firm hold upon the bar with both pudgy hands. O'Brien he said, red-eye. He pushed away the small glass which the bartender spun towards him and seized in its place a mighty water tumbler. O'Brien he explained, I need strength, not encouragement. And filling the glass nearly to the brim, he downed the huge potion with a single draft. End of Chapter 10. Chapter 11 of The Night Horseman. This leaper-vox recording is in the public domain. The Night Horseman by Max Brande. Chapter 11. The buzzard. Most animals have their human counterparts. And in that room where Jerry Strand had fallen, a whimsical observer might have termed Jerry with his tawny head, the lion. And O'Brien behind the bar, a shaggy bear. And the deputy marshal, a wolverine, fat but dangerous. And here stood a man as ugly and hardened as a desert coyose. And there was Dan Berry, sleek and supple as a panther. But among the rest, this whimsical observer must have noticed a fellow of prodigious height and negligible breath. A structure of sinews and bones that promise the rattle in the wind. A long, narrow head, a nose like a beak. Tiny eyes set close together and shining like polished buttons. And a vast Adam's apple that rolled up and down the scraggy throat. He might have done for the spirit of famine in an old play. But every dweller of the mountain desert would have found an aptar expression by calling him the buzzard of the scene. Through his prodigious ugliness, he was known far and wide as Ha Ha Langley. For on occasion, Langley laughed. And his laughter was an indescribable sound that lay somewhere between the brain of a mule and the culling of a crow. But Ha Ha Langley was usually silent. And he would sit for hours without words, twisting his head and making little pecking motions as his eyes fastened on face after face. All the bitterness of the mountain desert was in Ha Ha Langley. If his body looked like a buzzard, his soul was the soul of the vulture itself. And therefore, he had followed the courses of Jerry Strand up and down the range. He stuffed his gorge with the fragments of his leader's food. He fed his soul with the dangers which Jerry Strand met and conquered. In the bar room, Ha Ha Langley had stood, turning his sharp little eyes from Jerry Strand to Dan Berry and from Dan Berry back to Strand. And when the shot was fired, something like a grin twisted his thin lips. And when the spot of red glowed on the breast of the staggering man, the eyes of Ha Ha blazed, as if with a reflection of a devouring fire. Afterwards, he lingered for a few minutes, making no effort to aid the fallen man. But when he had satisfied himself with the extent of the injury, and when he had noted the froth of bloody bubbles which stained the lips of Strand, Ha Ha Langley turned and stalked from the room. His eyes were points of light and his soul was crammed to repletion with ill tidings. At the hitching rack, he stepped into the saddle of a diminutive horse, whirled it into the street with a staggering jerk of the reins and buried the spurs deep in the Calponi's flanks. The poor brute snorted and flirted its heels in the air, but Langley wrapped his long legs around the barrel of his mount and goaded it again. His smile, which began with the crack of Berry's gun and O'Brien's place, did not die out until he was many a mile away, headed far up through the mountains. But as he put peak after peak behind him, and as the white light of the day diminished and puffs of blue shadow drowned the valleys, the grin disappeared from Ha Ha's face. He became keenly intent on his course until, having reached the very summit of a tall hill, he came to a halt and peered down before him. It was nearly dusk by this time and the eyes of an ordinary man could not distinguish a tree from a rock at any great distance. But it seemed that Ha Ha was gifted with eyes extraordinary. The buzzard at the top of its sky-towering circles does not see the brown carcass far below, with more certainty, then Ha Ha sensed his direction. He waited only a few seconds before he rolled the rowls once more along the scored flanks of his Mustang and then plunged down the slope at a reckless gallop. His destination was a hut, or rather a lean-to, that pressed against the side of a mountain, a crazy structure with a single length of stovepipe leaning awry from the roof. And at the door of this house, Ha Ha Langley drew rain and stepped to the ground. The interior of the hut was dark, but Ha Ha stole with the caution of a wild Indian to the entrance and reconnoitered the interior, probing every shadowy corner with his glittering eyes. For several long moments he continued this examination, and even, when he was satisfied that there was no one in the place, he did not enter, but moved back several paces from the door and swept the sides of the mountains with an uneasy eye. He made out a short distance from the door, a picketed horse which now reared up its head from the miserable scattering of grass on which it fed and stared at the stranger. The animal must have bulked at least twice as large as the mount which had brought Langley to the mountainside, and it was muscled even out of proportion to its bulk. The head was so tremendously broad that it gave an almost square appearance, the neck short and thick, the forelegs disproportionately small, but very sturdy, and the whole animal was built on a slope towards the hind quarters, which seemed to equal in massiveness all the rest of the body. One would have said that the horse was a freak meant by nature for the climbing of hills, and the glance at it, no man could suppose that those ponderous limbs might be moved to a gallop. However, Ha Ha Langley well knew the powers of the ugly beast, and he even made a detour and walked about the horse to view it more closely. Now he again surveyed the darkening landscape and then turned once more to the house. This time he entered with the boldness of a possessor approaching his hearth. He lighted a match and with this ignited a lantern hanging from the wall to the right of the door. The furnishings of the dwelling were primitive beyond compare. There was no sign of a chair. A huddle of blankets on the bare boards of the floor made the bed. A saddle hung by one stirrup on one side, and on the other side leaned the skins of bobcats, lynx, and coyotes on their stretching and drying boards. Ha Ha took down the lantern and examined the pelts. The animals had been skinned with the utmost dexterity. As far as he could see, the hides had not been marred in a single place by slips of the knife, nor were there any bloodstains to attest hurried work, or careless shooting in the first place. The inner surfaces shone with a pure white of old parchment. But Ha Ha gave his chief attention to the legs and the heads of the skins, for these were the places where carelessness or stupidity with the knife were sure to show, but the work was perfect in every respect, until even the critical Ha Ha Langley was forced to step back and shake his head in admiration. He continued his survey of the room. In one corner stood a rifle and a shotgun. In another was a pile of provisions, bacon, flour, salt, meal, and little else. Spices and condiments were apparently unknown to this hermit, nor was there even the inevitable coffee, nor any of the molasses or other sweets, which the tongue of the desert mountaineer cannot resist. Flour, meat, and water, it seemed, made up the entire fare of the trapper. For cookery, there was an unborded space in the very center of the floor, with a number of rocks grouped around in the hole and blackened with soot. The smoke must rise, therefore, and escape through the small hole in the center of the roof. The length of stovepipe, which showed on the roof, must have been simply the inhabitants' idea of giving the last delicate touch of civilization. It was like a tassel to the cap of the turk. As Hall Hall's observations reached this point, his sharp ear caught the faint whinny of the big horse outside. He started like one caught in a guilty act and sprang to the lantern. However, with his hands upon it, he thought better of it, and he placed the light against the wall. Then he turned to the entrance and looked anxiously up the hillside. What he saw was a form grotesque beyond belief. It seemed to be some gigantic wild beast, mountain lion, or great bear, though of a size beyond precedence, which slowly sprawled down the slope, walking erect upon its hind feet, with its forelegs stretched out horizontal, as if it were warning all who might behold it away. Ha-ha, grew pale and involuntarily reached for his gun as he first beheld this apparition. But instantly he saw the truth. It was a man who carried a burden down the mountainside. The burden was the carcass of a bear. The man had drawn the forelegs over his shoulders, his jutting elbows making what had seemed the outstretched arms, and above the head of the burden bear rose the great head of the bear. As the man came closer, the animal's head flopped to one side and a red tongue lolled from its mouth. Ha-ha Langley moved back step by step through the cabin until his shoulders struck the opposite wall. And at the same time, Max Trann entered the room. He had no ear for his visitors' hail, but cast his burden to the floor. It dropped with a shock that shook the house from the rattling stovepipe to the crackling boards. For a moment, Max Trann regarded his prey. Then he stooped and drew open the great jaws. The mouth within was not so red as the bloody hands of Max Trann. And the big, white fangs, for some reason, did not seem terrible in comparison with the hunter. Having completed his survey, he turned slowly upon Ha-ha Langley and lowered his eyebrows to stare. So doing, the light for the first time struck full upon his face. Ha-ha Langley bit his thin lips and his eyes widened almost to the normal. For the ugliness of Max Trann was the most terrible species of ugliness. Not disfigured features, but a discord which pervaded the man and came from within him like a sound. Feature by feature, his face was not ugly. The mouth was very large, to be sure. And the jaw too heavily square. And the nose needed somewhat greater length and less width for real comeliness. The eyes were truly fine, being very large and black. Though when Max Trann lowered his bush of brows, his eyes were practically reduced to gleams of light in the consequent shadow. There was a sharp angle in his forehead, the lines of it meeting in the center and shelving up and down. One felt, unpleasantly, that there were heavy muscles overlaying that forehead. One felt that the touch it would be a pad of flesh and it gave to Max Trann, more than any other feature, a peculiar impression of resistless physical power. In the catalog of his features, indeed, there was nothing severely objectionable, but out of it came a feeling of too much strength. A glance at his body reinsured the first thought. It was not normal. His shirt bulged tightly at the shoulders with muscles. He was not tall, inches shorter than his brother Jerry, for instance, but the bulk of his body was incredible. His torso was a veritable barrel that bulged out, both in the chest and the back. And even the tremendous thighs of Max Trann were perceptively bowed out by the weight which they had to carry. And there was about his management of his arms the peculiar awkwardness, which only the very strongest of men exhibit, as if they were burdened by the weight of their mere dangling hands. This giant, having placed his eyes in shadow, peered for a long moment at Ha Ha Langley, but very soon his glance began to waver. It flashed towards the wall. It came back and rested upon Langley again. He was like a dog, restless under a steady stare, and as Ha Ha Langley noted this, a glitter of joy came into his beady eyes. Your jury's man, said Max Trann at length. There was about his voice the same fleshy quality that was in his face. It came literally from his stomach and it made a peculiar rustling sound, such as comes after one has eaten sticky, sweet things. People could listen to the voice of Max Trann and forget that he was speaking words. The articulation ran together in a sort of glutinous mass. I'm a friend of Jerry, said the other, I'm Langley. The big man stretched out his hand. The hair grew black down to the knuckles. The blood of the bear still streaked it. It was large enough to be an organism with independent life. But when Langley, with some misgiving, trusted his own bony fingers within that grasp, it was only as if something fleshy, soft, and bloodless had closed over them. When his hand was released, he rubbed it covertly against his trouser leg. To remove dirt, restore the circulation, he did not know why. Who's bothering Jerry, asked Max Trann. And where is he? He went to the wall without waiting for an answer and took down the saddle. Now the cow puncher's saddle is a heavy mass of leather and steel and the saddle of Max Trann was far larger than the ordinary. Yet he took down the saddle as one might remove a card from a rack. Ho-ho Langley moved towards the door to give himself a free space for exit. Jerry's heard, he said, and he watched. There was a ripple of pain on the face of Max Trann. Hoss kicked him, fall on him, he asked. It weren't a horse. Huh, a cow? Weren't no cow, there weren't no animal. Max Trann faced full upon Langley. When he spoke, it seemed as if it were difficult for him to manage his lips. They lifted in appreciable space before there was any sound. What was it, a man? Langley edged back towards the door. With what? A gun. And Langley saw the danger that was coming even before Max Trann moved. He gave a shrill yelp of terror and whirl and sprang for the open. But Max Trann sprang after him and reached. His whole body seemed to stretch like an elastic thing and his arm grew longer. The hand fastened on the back of Langley. Plucked him up and jammed him against the wall. Ha-ha crumpled to the floor. He gasped. It weren't me, Mac, for God's sakes, it weren't me. His face with a study. There was abject terror in it, and yet there was also a sort of gristly joy and his eyes feasted on the silent agony of Max Trann. Where, asked Max Trann. Mac pleaded to Vulture, who cringed on the floor. Give me a word, you ain't gonna hold it against me. Tell me, said the other, and he framed the face of the Vulture between his large hands. If he pressed the heels of those hands together, bones would snap, and ha-ha Langley knew it. And yet nothing but a wild delight could have set that glitter in his little eyes. Just as nothing but a palsy of terror could have set his limbs twitching so. Who shot him from behind, demanded the giant. It wasn't from behind, croaked the bearer of ill tidings. It was from the front. While he wasn't looking, no, he was beat to the draw. You're lying to me, said Max Trann, slowly. So help me God, cried Langley. Who done it? The little feller. He ain't half as big as me. He's got a voice like Kitty Jackson, the schoolmarm, and he's got eyes like a starved pup. It was him that done it. The eyes of Max Trann grew vaguely meditative. Nope, he mused in an answer to his own thoughts. I won't use no rope, I'll use my hands. Where'd the bullet land? The fresh agony of trembling shook Langley, and a fresh sparkle came in his glance. He twixed his ribs, Max, and right on through, and it come out his back. But there was not an answering tremor in Max Trann. He let his hands fall away from the face of the vulture, and he caught up the saddle. Langley straightened himself. He peered anxiously at Trann, as if he feared to miss something. I don't know whether he's living right now or not, suggested Ha Ha. But Max Trann was already striding through the door. Sweat was pouring from the lather-flaked bodies of their horses, when they drew rain at last at the goal of their long, fierce ride, and Ha Ha slunk behind the broad form of Max Trann when the ladder strode into the hotel. Then the two started for the room in which they were told lay Jerry Strann. There it is, whispered Ha Ha, as they reached ahead of the stairs. The door's open. If he was dead, the door would be closed, most like. They stood in the hall and looked in upon a strange picture. For flat in the bed lay Jerry Strann, his face very white and oddly thin, and over him leaned the man who had shot him down. They heard Dan Berry's soft, gentle voice query. How are you feeling now, partner? He leaned close beside the other, his fingers upon the wrist of Jerry. The pal better, muttered Jerry Strann. Seems like I got a more fightin' chance to pull through now. Just you keep lying here quiet, advised Dan Berry. And don't stir around none. Don't start no worryin'. You're going to live long as you don't lose no more blood. Keep your thoughts quiet. There ain't no cause for you to do nothing, but just keep your eyes closed and breathe, and think of yellow sunshine and green grass in the spring, and the wind lazing the clouds along across the sky. That's all you got to think about. Just keep quiet, partner. It's easy to do it now you're with me. Seems like there's a pile of strength running into me from the tips of your fingers, my friend, and I was some fool to start that fight with you, Berry. Just forget all that, murmured the other, and keep your voice down. I forgot it, you forget it. It ain't never happened. What's it mean, frowned Max Strann, whispering the ha-ha? The eyes of the latter glittered like beads. That's him that shot Jerry, said ha-ha, him. Hell snarled Max Strann and went through the door. At the first sound of his heavy footfall, the head of Berry raised and turned in a light, swift movement. The next instant he was on his feet. A moment before his face had been as gentle as that of a mother leaning over a sick child. But one glimpse of the threat in the contorted brows of Max Strann set a gleam in his own eyes, an answer as distinct as the click of metal against metal. Not a word had been said, but Jerry, who had lain with his eyes closed, seemed to sense a change in the atmosphere of peace which had unwrapped him the moment before. His eyes flashed open, and he saw his burly brother. But Max Strann had no eye for any, saving Dan Berry. Are you the creepin' sneakin' snake that done this? You got me figured right, answered Dan coldly. Then, by God, began the roaring voice of Mac. But Jerry Strann stirred wildly on the bed. Mac, he called. Mac, his voice went suddenly horribly thick, a bubbling liquid sound. For God's sakes, Mac, he had reared himself up on one elbow. His arm stretched out to his brother, and a foam of crimson stood on his lips. Mac, don't pull no gun. It was me that was in wrong. And then he fell back in the bed and into the arms of Mac, who was beside him moaning. Buck up, Jerry. Talk to me, boy. Mac, you finished the job, came the husky whisper. Max Strann raised his head, and his terrible eyes fixed upon Dan Berry. And there was no pity in the face of the other. The first threat had wiped every vestige of human tenderness out of his eyes. And now, with something like a sneer on his lips, and with a glimmer of yellow light in his eyes, he was backing towards the door. And noiselessly as a shadow, he slipped out and was gone. End of Chapter XI. CHAPTER XII. A man talks because he's drunk or lonesome. A girl talks because that's her way of taking exercise. This was a maxim of Buck Daniels. And Buck Daniels knew a great deal about women. As many as Schoolmarm and many a rancher's daughter of the Mountain Desert could testify. Also, Buck Daniels said of women, it ain't what you say to him so much as the tune you put it to. Now he sat this day in O'Brien's hotel dining room. It was the lazy and idle hour between three and four in the afternoon. And since the men of the Mountain Desert eat promptly at six, twelve and six, there was not a soul in the room when he entered. Nor was there a hint of eating utensils on the tables. Nevertheless, Buck Daniels was not dismayed. He selected a corner table by instinct and smote upon the surface with the flat of his hand. It made a report like the spat of a forty-five. Heavy footsteps approached, a door flung open, and a cross-eyed slatter stood in the opening. At the sight of Buck Daniels sitting with his hands on his hips and his sombrero pushed back to a good-natured distance on his head, the lady puffed with rage. What in the hell do you think this is, bellowed this gentle creature, and the tone echoed heavily back from all four walls. You're three hours late and you get no chuck here, on your way, stranger. Buck Daniels elevated himself slowly from the chair and stood at his full height. With emotion fully as deliberate, he removed his sombrero and bowed to such a depth that the brim of the hat brushed the floor. Lady, he said humbly, I was thinking that some jet run this here-eaten place, which, if you'll excuse me half a minute, I'll ramble outside and sluice off some of the dust. If I'd known you was here, I wouldn't have thought of coming in here like this. The lady, with the defective eyes, glared fiercely at him. Her judgment wavered two ways. Her first inclination was to hold that the fellow was jibing at her covertly, and she followed her original impulse far enough to clasp a neighboring sugar bowl in a large, capable hand. A second and more merciful thought entered her brain and stole slowly through it like a faint echo in a great cave. You don't have to make yourself pretty to talk to me, she said thoughtfully. But if you're here for chow, you're too late. Ma'am, said Buck Daniels instantly. When I come in here, I was hungry enough to eat nails. But I'll forget about Chuck if you'll sit down and chin with me a while. The large hand of the crossed-eyed lady stole out once more and rested upon the sugar bowl. Do you mind saying that over again, she queried? Lonesomeness is worse than hunger, said Buck Daniels, and he met her gaze steadily with his black eyes. The hand released the sugar bowl once more, something resembling color stole into the brown cheeks of the maiden. She said relentlessly, "'Maybe you've been off by yourself, mine and stranger.'" Buck Daniels drew a long breath. Mines, he said, and then laughed bitterly. If that was all I'd been doing, he began darkly, and then stopped. The waitress started. Maybe this here is my last chance to get Chuck for days and days. Well, let it go. If I stayed here with you, I'd be talking too much. He turned slowly towards the door. His step was very slow indeed. Wait a minute, called the maiden. There ain't any call for that play. If you're in wrong somewhere, well, stranger, just take that chair and I'll have some ham in front of you inside of a minute. She slammed through the door before Buck turned, and he sat down, smiling pleasantly to himself. Half of a mirror decorated the wall beside his table, and into this Buck peered. His black locks were sadly disarrayed, and he combed them into some semblance of order with his fingers. He had hardly finished this task when the door was kicked open with such force that it whacked against the wall, and the waitress appeared with an armful of steaming food. Before Buck's widening eyes, she swiftly set forth an array of bread, butter and chunks, crisp French fried potatoes, a large slab of ham on one plate, and several fried eggs on another. And above all, there was a mighty pewter cup of coffee blacker than the heart of night. Yearning seized upon Buck Daniels, but policy was stronger than hunger in his subtle mind. He rose again. He drew forth the chair opposite his own. Ma'am, said Buck Daniels, ain't you gonna favor me by sitting down? The lady blinked her unfocused eyes. Ain't I what? She was finally able to ask. I know, said Buck Daniels swiftly, that you're terrible busy, which you ain't got time to waste on a stranger like me. She turned upon Buck those uncertain and wistful eyes. It was a generous face, mouth, cheekbones and jaw, were a vast proportions, while the forehead, eyes and nose were as remarkably diminutive. Her glance lowered to the floor. She shrugged her wide shoulders and began to wipe the vestiges of dishwater from her freckled hands. You manner terrible foolish, she said. There ain't no telling what you mean by what you say. And she sank slowly into the chair. It gave voice in sharp protest at her weight. Buck Daniels retreated to the opposite side of the table and took his place. Ma'am, he began, don't I look honest? So saying, he slid half a dozen eggs in a section of bacon from the platter to his plate. I don't know, said the maiden with one eye upon him and the other plunging into the future. There ain't no trust in men. Take them by the lot and they're awful forgetful. If you knowed me better, said Buck sadly, disposing of a slab of bread spread thick with the pale butter. And following this with a pile of fried potatoes astutely balanced on his knife. If you knowed me better, ma'am, you wouldn't have no suspicions. What might it be that you've been doing? Asked the girl. Buck Daniels paused in his attack on the food and stared at her. He quoted deftly from a magazine which had once fallen in his way. Someday, maybe I can tell you, there's something about your eyes that tells me you'd understand. At the mention of her eyes, the weight was blinked and stiffened in her chair while a huge red fist balled itself in readiness for action. But the expression of Buck Daniels was as blandly open as the smile of infancy. The lady relaxed and an unmistakable blushed, tinged even her nose with color. It ain't after my nature to be asked in questions, she announced. You don't have to tell me no more than you want to. Thanks, said Buck instantly. I knew you was that kind. It ain't hard, he went on smoothly, to tell a lady when you see one. I can tell you this much to start with. I'm looking for a quiet town where I can settle down, permanent. And, as far as I can see, Brownsville looks sort of quiet to me. So sane, he disposed of the rest of his food by an act akin to ledger-dermain, and then fastened a keen eye upon the lady. She was in the midst of a struggle of some sort, but she could not keep the truth from her tongue. Take it by and large, she said at length. Brownsville is as peaceable as most, but just now, stranger, it's all set for a big bust. She turned heavily in her chair and glanced about the room. Then she faced Daniels once more and cupped her hands about her mouth. Stranger, she said in a stage whisper, Mac Strand is in town. The eyes of Buck Daniels wondered. Don't you know him, she asked? Nope. Never heard of him? Nope. Well, side the waitress, you've had some luck in your life. Take a cross between a bulldog and a Mustang and a mountain lion. That's Mac Strand. He's in town and he's here for killing. You don't say, ma'am. And why don't they lock him up? Because he ain't done nothing yet to be locked up about. That's the way with him. And when he does a thing, he always makes the man he's after pull his gun first. Smart? I'll say he's just like an Indian, that Mac Strand. But who's he after? The fella that plugged his brother Jerry. Kind of looks like he had a reason for killing, then. Nope. Jerry had it coming to him. He was always raised in trouble, Jerry was. And this time he pulled his gun first. Everybody's seen him. He run into a gunman. Gunman, she laughed heartily. Partner, if it wasn't for something funny about his eyes, I wouldn't be no more afraid of that gunman than I am of a tabby cat and me a weak woman. The quietest looking sort that ever come to Brownsville. But there's something queer about him. He knows that Mac Strand is here in town. He knows that Mac Strand is waiting for Jerry to die. He knows that when Jerry dies, Mac will be out for a killing. And this here stranger is just sitting around and waiting to be killed. Can you beat that? Buck Daniels had grown strangely excited. What did you say there was about his eyes? He asked sharply. She grew suddenly suspicious. Do you know him? No, but you was talking about his eyes. I don't know what it is. I ain't the only one that's seen it. There ain't no word you can put to it. It's just there, that's all. The voice of Buck Daniels fell to a whisper. It's sort of fire, he suggested. Ain't it a kind of light behind his eyes? But the waitress stared at him in amazement. Fire she gasped? A light behind his eyes? My friend, are you trying to string me? What's his name? I don't know. Ma'am, said Daniels, rising hastily. Here's a dollar if you'll take me to him. You don't need no guide, she replied. Listen to that, will you? And as he hearkened obediently, Buck Daniels heard a strain of whistling, needle sharp with distance. That's him not at the woman. He's always going about whistling to himself. Kind of a nut he is. It's him, cried Buck Daniels, it's him. And with his ungrammatical burst of joy, he bolted from the room. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of The Night Horseman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Night Horseman by Max Brand. Chapter 13. The Three. The whistling came from behind the hotel, and although it ended as soon as he reached the veranda of the building, Buck Daniels hurried to the rear of the place. There were the long, low sheds of the barn, and behind these, he knew, must be the corrals. He raced around the corner of the shed, and there came to a halt, for he saw a thing that turned his blood to ice. One of those rare rains of the mountain desert had recently fallen, and the corrals behind the barn were carpeted with a short, thick grass. In the small corral nearest him, he beheld, rolling on that carpet of grass, a great wolf, or a dog as large, and as rough-coated as a wolf, and a man. And they were engaged in a desperate and silent struggle for mastery. Their movements were so lightning-fast that Buck Daniels could not make out distinct forms from the tangle. But he saw the great white teeth of the wolf flashed in the sun, one instant, and, the next, the man had whirled on top. It was Dan and Bart at play. No outcry from Dan, no growl from the wolf. Buck felt the old chill which never left him when he saw the fierce game of the wolf and the wolf man. All this passed in the twinkling of an eye, and then Dan, by prodigious effort, had thrown the great beast away from him, so that Bart fell upon its back. Dan leaped without stretched arms upon the fallen animal and buried his clutching hands in the throat of the beast. Yet still, there was a thrill to add to these. For now, a black horse appeared in the picture, a miracle of slender, shimmering grace, and he rushed with flattened ears upon the two twisting, writhing, prostrate figures. His teeth were bared. He was more like a prodigious dog than a horse, and those teeth closed on the back of the man's neck, or did they merely pinch his shirt? And then Dan was dragged bodily away from the wolf and thrown through the air by a flirt of the stallion's head. Horrible, Buck Daniel shuddered, and then he grinned, shame facedly, in apology to himself. The three of me grunted and stepped closer to the fence to watch. The instant the man was torn away by the intercession of the horse, the wolf regained its feet and rushed upon him. But Dan had landed from his fall upon his feet with cat-like agility, and now he dodged the rush of the wolf and the arrowy spring of the creature, and sprang in his turn towards the stallion. The black met his attack by rearing, his ears flattened, his teeth bared, his eyes terrible to behold. As the man raced close, the stallion struck with lightning hoofs, but the blow failed of its mark by the breadth of a hair, and the assailant, swerving like a will of the wisp, darted to the side of the animal and leaped upon its back. At the same instant the wolf left the ground with terribly gapping mouth in a spring for the rider, but Dan flattened himself along the shining back of his mount and the wolf catapulted harmlessly past. After this failure the wolf dog seemed to desire no further active part in the struggle, but took up a position to one side, and there with lawling tongue and red-stained eyes watched the battle continue. The stallion, to be sure, kept up the conflict with a whole-hearted energy, never had Buck Daniels in a long and varied career seen such wild pitching. The black leaped here and there, doubling about with the sinuous speed of a snake, springing high into the air one instant and landing the next on stiff legs, dropping to the ground the next second and rolling to crush the rider, up again like a leaf jerked up by a gale of wind, and so fierce the struggle continued with the wild rider slapping the neck of the horse as if he would encourage it to more terrible efforts and drumming its round barrel with vindictive heels. His hair blew black, his face flushed, and in his eyes there was the joy of the sailor, long land-bound, who climbs at last the tallest mast and feels it pitched beneath him and catches the sharp tang of the traveled wind. The struggle ceased as if in obedience to an inaudible command. From the full frenzy of motion, horse and man were suddenly moveless. Then Dan slipped from his seat and stood before his mount. At once the ears of the stallion, which had been flat back, pricked sharply forward, the eyes of the animal grew luminous and soft as the eyes of a woman, and he dropped the black velvet of his muzzle beneath the master's chin. As for Dan Berry, he rewarded this outburst of affection with no touch of his hand, but his lips moved, and he seemed to be whispering a secret to his horse. The wolf in the meantime had viewed this scene with growing unrest, and now it trotted up and placed itself at the side of the man. Receiving no attention in this position, it caught the arm of the man between its great fangs and drew his hands down. The stallion, angered by this interruption, raised a delicate forefoot to strike and was received with a terrific snarl, the first sound of the entire scene. Bart said to the man, and his voice was not raised or harsh, but came as softly as running water. If you ain't going to be a gentleman, I got to teach you manners. Get up on Satan's back and lie down till I tell you to get off. The wolf received this command with a snarl, even more blood-curdling than before, but he obeyed, slinking sideways, a reluctant pace or two, and then springing to the back of the stallion with a single bound. There he crouched, still snarling softly, until his master raised a significant forefinger. At that he lowered his head and maintained a fiercely observant silence. Daen called Buck Daniels, the other world. Speaking of pets, observed Buck Daniels, I heard tell once about a gent that had a tame lion, which you got the out-beatingest pair I ever see, Daen. Gentle, ain't they? Like a stampede of cows. But Barry left this remark unanswered. He ran to the tall fence, placed his hand on the top rail and vaulted lightly over it. Then he clasped the hand of the larger man and his face lighted. Buck, he said, I've been sort of lonesome. It feels pretty good to see you again. Oh, man, answered Buck Daniels. Speaking of being lonesome, he checked himself. How about stepping inside and having a talk? The other started forward agreeably, but stopped almost at once. Healed, he called, without turning his head. Black Bart left the back of the stallion in a long bound that carried him halfway to the fence. His next leap brought him over the rail and beside his master. Buck Daniels moved back a step involuntarily. Bart, he said, do you know me? He stretched out his hand and was received with a sudden bearing of the fangs. Nice dogs, said Buck sarcastically. Regular house-pad, ain't he? The other apparently missed the entire point of this remark. He said in his gentle, serious way. He used to be real wild, Buck. But now he don't mind people. He let the cook feed him a chunk of meat the other day. And you remember, he don't usually touch stuff that other men have handled. Yup, grunted Buck. Sure is disgusting to have a dog as tame as that. I bet he ain't killed another dog for a whole day, maybe. And still Barry saw no irony in this. He answered as gravely as before. No, it was the day before yesterday. Somebody come to town and got drunk. He had two dogs and sicked him on Bart. Buck Daniels controlled and incipients, shuttered. Both dead. I was inside the house, said Dan, sadly. And it took me a couple of seconds to get outside. Of course, by that time, Bart had cut their throats. Of course, didn't the drunk guy try to pop Bart? Yes, he got out his gun. But Mr. O'Brien, the bartender, persuaded him out of it. I was glad there wasn't no trouble. My God exclaimed Buck Daniels. And then, well, let's go inside. We'll take your man-eater dog along if you want to. The shadow came into the eyes of Barry. Can't we just talk out here? What's the matter with finding some chairs? Because I don't like to get inside walls. You know how four walls seem like so many pairs of eyes standing round you. No, said Buck Bluntly. I don't know nothing of the kind. What do you mean? I don't know, answered Barry, depressed. It just seems that way. Ain't you noticed how sort of close it is in a house? Hard to breathe? Like you had on a shirt too small for you. We'll stay out here then. The other nodded, smiled, and made a gesture to the dog behind him. Black Bart crouched on the ground, and Dan Barry sat down cross-legged, his shoulders leaning against the shaggy pelt of Bart. Daniels followed the example with less grace. He was thinking very hard and fast, and he rolled a Durham cigarette to fill the interlude. I suppose you're busting to find out the news about the folks, he said, dryly at last. The other sat with his hands loosely clasped in his lap. His wide eyes looked far away, and there was about his lips that looseness, that lack of compression, which one sees so often in children. He might have sat in that posture for the statue of thoughtlessness. What folks, he asked at last. Buck Daniels had lighted a match, but now he sat staring blank until the match burned down to his fingers. With an oath he tossed a remnant away and lighted another. He had drawn down several long breaths of smoke to the bottom of his lungs before he could speak again. Some people you used to know. I suppose you've forgotten all about him, eh? His eyes narrowed. There was a spark of something akin to dread in them. Kate Cumberland, he queried. A light came in the face of Dan Berry. Kate Cumberland, he repeated. How is she, Buck? Lately, I've been thinking about her every day. The trembling took the body and the voice of Daniels. His errand, after all, might meet some success. Kate, he repeated. Oh, I, she's well enough. But Joe Cumberland ain't. No, he's dying, Dan. And Dan replied calmly. He's kind of old, I suppose. Old, said Buck, with a sort of horror. Yes, he's old right enough. Do you know why he's dying? It's because you went away the way you done, Dan. That's what's killing him. Something of thought came into the face of Berry. Maybe I understand, he said slowly. If I was to lose Satan or Bart, here, the great dog whined at the mention of his name, and Berry dropped the slender hand across the scarred forehead of his servant. If I was losing, I'd sort of mourn for him, maybe. Buck Daniel said his teeth. I don't suppose it seems possible, he said, that a man could miss another man the way you could miss your dog, eh? But it is. Joe Cumberland is dying for you, Dan, as sure as you've put a bullet in his bowels. The other hesitated and then frowned and made a gesture of vague dismissal. Don't you figure I'm doing nothing about it? Asked Buck softly. What could I do? My God almighty, ain't you got no human feelings? I don't know what you mean, said the soft voice. This, can't you get on your horse and ride back with me to Cumberland Ranch? Stay with the old man till he gets back on his feet. Ain't that easy to do? Is your time so damn valuable you can't spare a few days for that? But I am going back, answered Dan, in a rather hurt voice. There ain't no need for cussing me, Buck. I've been thinking of Kate every day almost. Since when? I don't know, Dan stirred uneasily. He looked up and far above Buck, following the direction of Dan's eyes and saw a pattern of wild geese. I've been sorta drifting north toward the Cumberland Ranch and Kate went on Dan. He sighed. I've been thinking of her eyes, which is blue, Buck, and her hair and the soft sound of her voice. They've been hanging in my ears, staying behind my eyes lately and I've been drifting up that way, steady. Why, man, cried Buck, what's there to keep you here? Jump on your horse and we'll head north in ten minutes. I will, said Dan, full as eagerly. We'll start full speed. Come on then. Wait a minute, said Dan, his voice growing suddenly cold. I've been forgetting something. Buck Daniels turned and found his companion strangely changed. There was a sad expression of coldness about his face and a chill glitter in his eyes. I got to wait here for something. What's that? There's a man in town that may want to see me. Max Trann, I've heard about him. Dan, are you gonna let Joe Cumberland die because you want to stay here and fight it out with a dirty cutthroat? I don't want to fight, protested Barry. No, there ain't nothing I like less than fighting. Buck Daniels cursed softly and continuously to himself. Dan, he said, can you sit there and lie to me like that? Ain't I seen you in action? Don't I remember the way you trailed Jim silent? Don't I remember how we all got down and prayed you'd keep away from Jim? Don't I remember how you threw everything to hell so you could get your hands on Jim? My God, almighty man, didn't I see your face when you had your fingers in silent stroke? An expression of unutterable revulsion rippled over the face of Dan Barry. Stop, he commended softly and raised his slender hand. Don't keep on talking about it. It makes me sick all through. Oh, Buck, there's a tingle in the tips of my fingers still from the time I had him in his throat. And it makes me feel unclean. The sort of uncleanness that won't wash out with no kind of soap and water. Buck, I'd most rather die myself than fight a man. A vast amazement overspread the countenance of Buck Daniels as he listened to this outburst. It was as if he had heard a healthy man proclaim that he had no desire for bread and meat. Something rose to his lips, but he swallowed it. Then it looks kind of simple to me, he said. You hate fighting? This gent Max Dran likes it. He lives on it. He don't do nothing but wait from day to day hungering for a scrap. What's that out? Just this. You hop on your horse and ride out with me. Young Jerry Stran kicks out. Max Stran starts looking for you. He hears that you've beat it. He goes off and forgets about you. Ain't that simple? The old uneasiness returned to the far-seeing eyes of Dan Berry. I don't know, he said. Maybe. Then he paused again. Have you got anything to say again it, urged Buck, arguing desperately? I don't know, repeated Berry, confused. Except that I keep thinking what a terrible disappointment it will be to this Max Stran when his brother dies and I ain't around. Buck Daniels stared, blinked, and then burst into unmelodious laughter. Satan trotted across the corral and raised his head above the fence, winnying softly. Berry turned his head and smiled up to the horse. Then he said, seems like if Jerry Stran dies, I owe somebody something. Who? Max Stran, I reckon. I sort of got to stay and give him his chance. I hope the God burst out Daniels smashing his hands together. That Max Stran beats you to a pulp, that's what I hope. The eyes of Dan Berry widened. Why do you hope that, he asked gently? It brought Daniels again to speechlessness. Is it possibly growled to himself? Are you a human being, and yet you think more of your horse than your damn wolf dog, than you do of the life of a man? Dan, I'm asking you straight, is that a square thing to do? The fragile hands went out to him, palm up. Don't you see, Buck, I don't want to be this way. I just can't help it. Then the Lord helped poor old Joel Cumberland, him that took he in out of the desert, him that raised you from the time he was a kid, him that nursed you like you as his own baby, him that loved you more than he loved Kate, him that's lying back there now with fire in his eyes, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to come back. Dan, if you was to see him, you'd get down on your knees and ask him to forgive you. I suppose I would, murmured Berry thoughtfully. Dan, you're going with me. I don't somehow think it's my time for moving, Buck. Is that all you got to say to me? I guess maybe it is, Buck. If I was to beg you to come for old times' sake and all we'd been through together, you and me, wouldn't it make no difference to you? The large, gentle eyes focused far beyond Buck Daniels, somewhere on a point in the pale, hazy blue of the spring sky. I'm kind of tired of talking, Buck, he said at length. And Buck Daniels rose and walked slowly away with his head falling. Behind him the stallion made suddenly and loud, and it was so much like a blast of defiant triumph that Buck whirled and shook his clenched fist at Satan. A thought is like a spur. It lives the head of a man as the spur makes the horse toss his, and it quickens the pace with a subtle addition of strength. Such a thought came to Buck Daniels as he stepped again on the veranda of the hotel. It could not have been an altogether pleasant inspiration, for it drained the color from his face and made him clench his broad hands, and next he loosened his revolver in its holster. A thought of fighting, of some desperate chance he had once taken, perhaps. But also it was a thought which needed considerable thought. He slumped into a wicked chair at one end of the porch, and sat, with his chin resting on his chest, while he smoked cigarette after cigarette, and tossed the butts idly over the rail. More than once he pressed his hand against his lips, as though there were sudden pains there. The color did not come back to his face. It continued as bloodless as ever, but there was a ponderable light in his eyes, and his jaws became more and more firmly set. It was not a pleasant face to watch at that moment, for he seemed to sit with a growing resolve. Long moments passed before he moved the muscle, but then he heard, far away, thin and clear, whistling from behind the hotel. It was no recognizable tune. It was rather a strange improvisation, with singable fragments here and there, and then wild free runs and frills. It was as if some bird of exquisite singing powers should be taken in a rapture of song, so that it whistled snatches here and there of its usual melody, but all between were great whole-throated rhapsodies. As the sound of this whistling came to him, Buck raised his head suddenly, and finally, still listening, he rose to his feet and turned into the dining-room. There he found the waitress, he had met before, and he asked her for the name of the doctor who took care of the wounded Jerry Strand. There ain't no doc, said the waitress. It's Fatty Matthews, the deputy marshal, who takes care of that Strand. Bad luck to him. Fatty's in the bar room now, but what's the matter? You seem like you was hearing something. I am, replied Daniels enigmatically. I'm hearing something that would be music for the ears of old Nick. And he turned on his heel and strolled for the bar room. There he found Fatty, in the very act of disposing of a stiff three fingers of red eye. Daniel stepped to the bar, poured his own drink, and then stood toying with the glass. For though the effect of red eye may be pleasant enough, it has an essence which appalls the stoutest heart and singes the most leathery throat. It is to full-grown men what castor oil is to a child. Why men drink it is a mystery, whose secret is known only to the profound soul of the mountain desert. But while Daniels fingered his glass, he kept an eye upon the other man at the bar. It was unquestionably the one he sought. The excess flesh of the deputy marshal would have brought his nickname to the mind of an imbecile. However, Fatty was humming softly to himself, and it is not the habit of men who treat very sick patients to sing. I'll hit it again, said Fatty. I need it. Have a bad time of it today, asked O'Brien, sympathetically. Bad time today? Yep, and every day is the same. I tell you O'Brien, it takes a pile of nerve to stand around that room, expecting Jerry to pass out any minute, and the eyes of that devil, Max Strand, following you every step you make. Do you know, if Jerry dies, I figure Mack to go at my throat like a bulldog. You're wrong, Fatty, replied O'Brien. That ain't his way about it. He takes his time killing a man, waits till he can get him in a public place and make him start the picture. That's Max Strand. Remember Fitzpatrick? Max Strand followed Fitz nigh on the two months, but Fitz knew what was up, and he never would make a move. He knowed that if he made a wrong pass, it would be his last. So he took everything and let it pass by. But finally it got on his nerves. One time it was right here in my bar room, Fatty. The hell you say? Yep, that was before your time around these parts. But Fitz had a couple of jolts of red eye under his vest and felt pretty strong. Max Strand happened in, and the first thing you know, they was at it. Well, Fitz was a big man. I ain't small, but I had to look up when I talked to Fitz. Scott's Irish, and they've got fightin' bread into their bones. Max Strand passed him a look, and Fitz came back with a word. As soon as he got started, he couldn't stop. It wasn't a pretty thing to watch, either. You could see in Fitz's face that he knew he was done for, before he started, but he wouldn't let up. That booze had him goin', and he was too proud to back down. Pretty soon, he started cussin' Max Strand. Well, by that time everybody had cleared out of the saloon, because they knowed that them sort of words meant bullets comin'. But Max Strand just stood there watchin', and grinnin' in his ugly way. Damn his soul black, and never sayin' a word back. By God, Fatty, he looked sort of hungry. When he grinned, his upper lip went up kinda slow, and you could see his big teeth. I expected to see him make a move to sink him in the throat of Fitz, but he didn't. Nope, he didn't make a move, and all the time, Fitz ravenin' getting worse and worse. Finally, Fitz made the move. Yep, he pulled his gun, and had it damn near clean on Max Strand, before that devil would stir. But when he did, it was just a flash of light. Both of them guns went off, but Max's bullet hit Fitz's hand, and knocked the gun out of it. So, of course, his shot went wild, but Fitz could see his own blood, and you know what that does to the Scotch Irish, makes some people quit cold to see their own blood. I remember a kid at school that was a whale at fightin', till his nose got the bleedin', or somethin', and then he'd quit cold. But you take a Scotch Irishman, and it works just the other way. Show him his own color, and he goes plum crazy. That's what happened to Fitz. When he saw the blood on his hand, he made a dive at Max Strand. After that, it wasn't the sort of thing that makes a good story. Max Strand got him around the ribs, and I heard the bones crack. God and him still squeezein', and Fitz beatin' away at Max's face with his bleedin' hand. We believed that I stood here, and was sort of froze. Yes, Fatty, I couldn't make a move, and I was sort of sick and hallow inside. The same way I went one time when I was a kid, and seen a big bull horn a yearlin'. Then I heard the breath of Fitz coming hoarse with a rattle in it. And I heard Max Strand whining like a dog, that tasted blood and is starvin' for more. A thing that make you hair go up on end, like they say in the story books. Then Fitz, he was plum mad, tried to bite Max Strand. And then Mack let go of him, and set his hands on the throat of Fitz. It happened like a flash. I'm here to swear that I could hear the bones crunch. And then Fitz's mouth sagged open, and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling. And Max Strand threw him down on the floor, just like that, damn him. And then he stood over poor dead Fitz, and kicked him in those busted ribs, and turned over to the bar, and says to me, gimme, like a damn beast. He wanted to drink right there with his dead man beside him. And what was worse, I had to give him the bottle. There was a sort of haze in front of my eyes. I wanted to pump that devil full of lead. But I knowed it was plain suicide to try it. So there he stood, and ups with a glass that was brimming full, and downs it at a swallow gurgling like a hog. Fatty, how long will it be before there is an end to Max Strand? But Fatty Matthews shrugged his thick shoulders, and poured himself another drink. There ain't a hope for Jerry Strand, cut in Buck Daniels. Not one in a million coughed Fatty, disposing of another formidable potion. And when Jerry dies, Max starts for this berry. Who's been telling you, queried O'Brien Riley? Maybe you'd been reading mine, stranger. Buck Daniels regarded the bartender with a mild and steadfast interest. He was smiling with the utmost good humor. But there was that about him, which made Big O'Brien flush, and looked down to his array of glasses behind the bar. I've been wondering when on Daniels, if Max Strand might come out with Berry about the way Jerry did. Ain't it possible? No, replied Fatty Matthews with calm decision. It ain't possible. Well, I'm due back in my bear cage. You ought to look in on me, O'Brien, and see the mountain lion dying, and the grizzly looking on. Will it last long, queried O'Brien? Somewhere is about this evening. Here Daniels started violently, and closed his hand hard around his whiskey glass, which he had not yet raised toward his lips. Are you sure of that, Marshall? he asked. If Jerry's held on this long, ain't there a chance that it'll hold on longer? Can you date him up for tonight, as sure as that? I can, said the deputy Marshall. It ain't hard when you've seen as many go west as I've seen. It ain't harder than it is to tell when the sand will be out of an hourglass. When they begin going down the last hill, it ain't hard to tell when they'll reach the bottom. Ain't you had anybody to spell you, Fatty? Broke in, O'Brien? Yep, I got Haw-Haw Langley up there, but he ain't much help. Just sits around with his hands folded. Kinda looks like Haw-Haw wanted Jerry to pass out. And Matthews went humming through the swinging door. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of The Night Horseman This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Night Horseman by Max Brand Chapter 15 Old Gary Peters For some moments after this, Buck Daniels remained at the bar with his hand clenched around his glass and his eyes fixed before him in the peculiar, second-sighted manner which had marked him when he sat so long on the veranda. Funny thing began, O'Brien, to make conversation. How many fellows go west at sunset? Seems like they let go all halts as soon as the dark comes. Hey, how long before sunset now? asked Buck Daniels sharply. Maybe a couple hours? A couple hours, repeated Daniels, and ground his knuckles across his forehead. A couple of hours? He raised his glass with a jerky motion and downed the contents. The chaser stood disregarded before him, and O'Brien regarded his patron with an eye of admiration. He along for these parts, he asked. No, I'm strange of this range. Riding up north pretty soon, if I can get someone to tell me the lay of the land. Do you know it? Never been further north than Brownsville. Couldn't name me someone that's traveled about, I suppose. Old Gary Peters knows every rock within three days riding. He keeps the blacksmith's shop across the way. So, thanks, I'll look him up. Buck Daniels found the blacksmith seated on a box before his place of business. It was a slack time for Gary Peters, and he consoled himself for idleness. By chewing the stem of an unlighted corn cob, whose bowl was upside down, his head was pulled down and forward, as if by the weight of his proditious, sandy moustache, and he regarded a vague horizon with misty eyes. Seeing you coming out of O'Brien, said the blacksmith, as Buck took possession of a nearby box. What's the news? Ain't any news, responded Buck dejectedly. Too much talk, no news. That's right, nodded Gary Peters. O'Brien is the out-talkingest man I ever seen. Ain't nobody on Brownsville can get his tongue around so many words as O'Brien. So sane, he blew through his pipe, picked up a stick of soft pine, and began to whittle it to a point. In my part of the country went on Buck Daniels. They don't lay much by a man that talks a pile. Here the blacksmith turned his head slowly, regarded his companion for an instant, and then resumed his whittling. But, said Daniels with a sigh, if I could find a man that know'd the country north of Brownsville, and had a hobble on his tongue, I could give him a night's work that'd be worthwhile. Gary Peters removed his pipe from his mouth, and blew out his dropping moustache. He turned one wistful glance upon his idle forge. He turned a satirye upon his companion. I could name you a silent man or two in Brownsville, he said, but there ain't only one man that knows the country right. That's so, and who might that be? Me. You, Echo Daniels, in surprise? He turned and considered Gary, as if for the first time. Maybe you know the lay of the land up as far as Hawkins Arile? Me? Son, I know every cactus clear to Bald Eagle. Hmm, Mother Daniels. I suppose maybe you could name some of the outfits from here on a line with Bald Eagle. So you put them ten miles apart. Nothing easier. I could find a blindfold. First, do out, there's Macaulay's. Then, lay a bit west of north, and you hit the circle K-bar. That's about twelve miles from Macaulay's. Hit her up dead north again by east, and you come eight miles to three roads. Go on, too. Partner, cut in Daniels, I could do business with you. Maybe you could. My name's Daniels. I'm Gary Peters. How are you? They shook hands. Peters said, Buck Daniels, you look square, and I need you in square game, but there ain't any questions that go with it. Twenty iron men for one day's riding, and one day's silence. A friend murmured, Peters, in my day I've gone three months without speaking to anything in boots, and I wasn't hired for it, neither. You know them people up the line, said Daniels, do they know you? I'll tell a man they do, know Gary Peters? Partner, this is what I want. I want you to leave Brownsville inside of ten minutes, and start riding for Elkhead. I want you to ride, and I want you to ride like hell. Every ten miles or so, I want you to stop at some place where you can get a fresh horse. Get your fresh horse, and leave the one you got off. And tell them to have that horse you leave ready for me any time tonight. It'll take you clear till tomorrow night to reach Elkhead, even with relaying your horses. Round about that, if I ride like hell, what do I take with me? Nothing, nothing but the coin I give you to hire someone at every stop to have that horse you left ready for me. Better still, if you can have them, get a fresh horse. Would they trust you with horses that way, Gary? Give me the coin, and where they won't trust me, I'll pay cash. I can do it, it'll about bust me, but I can do it. You going to try for a record between Brownsville and Elkhead? Got a bet up, huh? Biggest bet you ever heard of, said Daniels Grimly. You can tell the boys along the road that I'm trying for time. Have you got a fast horse to start with? Got a red mare that ain't much for running cattle, but she's greased lightening for a short burst. And get her out, saddle her up, and be on your way. Here's my stake. I'll keep back 120 for accidents. First, give me a list of the places you'll stop for the relays. He produced an old envelope and a stub of soft pencil, with which he jotted down Gary Peter's directions. And every second, said Buck Daniels in parting, that you can cut off your own time, it'll be a second cut off of mine, because I'm liable to be on your heels when you ride in the Elkhead. Gary Peter's lifted his eyebrows, and then restored his pipe. He spoke through his teeth. You ain't got a piece of money to bet on that, partner. He queried softly. Ten extra if you get the Elkhead before me. There's limits to Haas's flesh, remarked Peter's. What time you're riding against? Against a cross between a bullet and a nor'easter. Gary, I'm going back to drink to your luck. A promise which Buck Daniels fulfilled, for he had need of even borrowed strength. He drank steadily until a rattle of hoofs down the street entered the saloon. And then someone came in to say that Gary Peter's had started out of town to beat all hell on his red mare. After that, Buck started out to find Dan Berry. His quarry was not in the barn, nor in the corral behind the barn. There stood Satan and Black Bart, but their owner was not in sight. But a thought came to Buck, while he looked rather mournfully, at the stallion's promise of limitless speed. If I can hold him up just half a minute, murmured Buck to himself, just half a minute till I get a start, I got a rabbit's chance of living out the night. From the door of the first shed he took a heavy chain with the key in the padlock. The chain he looped around the post and the main timber of the gate snapped the padlock and threw the key into the distance. Then he stepped back and surveyed his work with satisfaction. It would be a pretty job to file through that chain or to knock down those ponderous rails of the fence and make a gap. A smile of satisfaction came on the face of Buck Daniels. Then, hitching at his belt and pulling his sombrero lower over his eyes, he started once more to find Dan Berry. He was more in haste now, for the sun was dipping behind the mountains of the west, and the long shadows moved along the road. When he reached the street he found the steady drift of people towards O'Brien's bar room. They came by ones and twos and idled in front of the swinging doors, or slightly peeked through them and then whispered one to the other. Buck accosted one of those by the door and asked what was wrong. He's in there, said the other, with a broad and excited grin. He's in there, said the other, with a broad and excited grin. He's in there, waiting. And when Buck Daniels threw the doors wide, he saw, at the farther end of the deserted bar room, Dan Berry seated at a table, braiding a small horsehair chain. His hat was pushed far back on his head. He had his back to the door. Certainly he must be quite unaware that all Brownsville was waiting breathless for his destruction. Behind the bar stood O'Brien, pale under his bristles, and his eyes never leaving the slender figure at the end of his room. But seeing Buck, he called with sudden loudness. Come in, stranger. Come in and have one on the house. There ain't nothing but silence around this place, and it's getting on my nerves. Buck Daniels obeyed the invitation at once. And behind him, stepping softly, some of them entering with their hats in their hands and on tiptoe, came a score of the inhabitants of Brownsville. They'd lined the bar up and down its length. Not a word was spoken. But every head turned, as at a given signal, towards the quiet man at the end of the room. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of The Night Horseman This Libravox recording is in the public domain. The Night Horseman by Max Brand Chapter 16 The Coming of Night It was not yet full dusk, for the shadows were still swinging out from the mountains and a ghost of color lingered in the west. But midnight lay in the open eyes of Jerry Strand. There had been no struggle, no outcry, no lifting of head or hand. One instant his eyes were closed, and then, indeed, he looked like death. And the next instant the eyes opened. He smiled. The wind stirred in his bright hair. He had never seemed so happily alive as in the moment of his death. Fatty Matthews held the mirror close to the faintly parted lips, examined it, and then drew slowly back towards the door. His eyes steady upon Max Strand. Mac, he said, it's come. I've got just this to say. Whatever you do, for God's sakes, stay inside the law. And he slipped through the door and was gone. But Max Strand did not raise his head or cast a glance after the marshal. He sat, turning the limp hand of Jerry back and forth in his own. And his eyes wandered vaguely through the window and down to the roofs of the village. Night thickened perceptibly every moment. Yet still, while the eastern slope of every roof was yet black, the western slopes were bright. And here and there at the distance the light turned and waned on upper windows. Sleep was coming over the world. And eternal sleep had come for Jerry Strand. It did not seem possible. Some night at sea, when clouds hurtled before the wind across the sky, and when the waves leaped up, massed high. When some good ship staggered with a storm, when hundreds were shrieking and yelling in fear or defiance of death, there would have been a death scene for Jerry Strand. Or in the battle, when hundreds rushed to the attack, with one man in front like the edge before the knife, there would have been a death scene for Jerry Strand. Or while he rode singing, a bolt of lightning that slew and obliterated at once, such would have been a death scene for Jerry Strand. It was not possible that he could die like this with a smile. There was something incompleted. The fury of the death struggle, which had been omitted, must take place, and the full rage of wrath and destruction must be vented. Can a bomb explode and make no sound and do no injury? Yet Jerry Strand was dead, and all the world lived on. Someone cantered his horse down the street, and called gaily to an acquaintance, and afterwards the dust rose invisible, and blew through the open window, and stung the nostrils of Max Strand. A child cried faintly in the distance, and then was hushed by the voice of the mother, making a sound like a cackling hymn. This was all. There should have been wailing and weeping and cursing and praying, for handsome Jerry Strand was dead. Or there might have been utter and dreadful silence and waiting for the stroke of vengeance, for the brightest eye was misted, and the strongest hand was unnerved, and the voice that had made them tremble was gone. But there was neither silence nor weeping. Someone in the nearby kitchen rattled her pans, and then cursed a dog away from her back door. Not that any of the sounds were loud. The sounds of living are rarely loud. But they run in an endless river, a monotone broken by ugly ripples of noise, to testify that men still sleep or awaken. Hunger or feed. Another ripple had gone down to the sea of darkness, yet all the ripples behind it chased on their way heedlessly and babbled, neither louder nor softer. There should have been some giant voice to peal over the sleeping village, and warn them of the coming vengeance, for Jerry Strand was dead. The tall, gaunt figure of Ha Ha Langley came on Tiptoe from behind, beheld the dead face and grinned. A nervous convulsion sent a long ripple through his body, and his Adam's apple rose and fell. Next he stole sideways, inch by inch, so gradual was his cautious progress, until he could catch a glimpse of Max Strand's face. It was like the open face of a child. There was in it no expression except wonder. At length a hoarse voice issued from between the grinning lips of Ha Ha. Ain't you going to close the eyes, Mac? At this the great head of Max Strand rolled back, and he raised his glance to Ha Ha, who banished the grin from his mouth by a vicious effort. Ain't he got to see his way, asked Max Strand, and lowered his glance once more to the dead man. As for Ha Ha Langley, he made a long, gliding step back towards the door, and his beady eyes opened in terror. Yet a deadly fascination drew him back again beside the bed. Max Strand said, Kind of looks like Jerry was riding the home trail. Ha Ha, see the way he's smiling? The vulture stroked his lean cheeks, and seemed once more to swallow his silent mirth. And his hands, said Max Strand, is just like life, except they're getting sort of chilly. He don't look changed none, does he, Ha Ha, except that he's seeing something off there, a way off there. Looks like he was all wrapped up in it, huh? He leaned closer, his voice fell to a murmur that was almost soft. Jerry, what you seein'? Ha Ha Langley gasped in inaudible terror, and retreated again towards the door. Max Strand laid his giant hand on the shoulder of Jerry. He asked in a raised voice, Don't you hear me, lad? Sudden terror caught hold of him. He plunged to his knees beside the bed, and the floor quaked and groaned under the shock. Jerry, what's the matter? Are you mad at me? Ain't you gonna speak to me? Are you forgetting me, Jerry? He caught the dead face between his hands, and turned it strongly towards his own. Then, for a moment, his eyes plumbed the shadows into which they looked. He stumbled back to his feet, and said apologetically to Ha Ha at the door. I kind of forgot he wasn't living for a minute. He stared fixately at the gaunt cow puncher. Speakin' man to man, Ha Ha. Do you think Jerry will forget me? The terror was still white upon the face of Ha Ha, but something stronger than fear kept him in the room, and even drew him a slow step towards Max Strand, and his eyes moved from the face of the dead man to the face of the living, and seemed to draw sustenance from both. He moistened his lips and was able to speak. Forget you, Mac. Not if you get the man that fixed him. Would you want me to get him, Jerry, as Max Strand? And he waited for an answer. I don't know, he muttered after a moment. Jerry was always refightin', but he was never for killin'. He never liked the way I'd done things. And when he was lyin' here, Ha Ha, he never said nothin' about me gettin' buried, did he? The astonishment froze the lips of Ha Ha. He managed to stammer. Ain't you gonna get buried? Ain't you gonna bust him up, Mac? I don't know, repeated the big man heavily. Seems like I've got no heart for killin'. Seems like there's enough death in the world. He pressed his hand against his forehead and closed his eyes. Seems like there's somethin' dead in me. There's an egg that goes ringin' in my head. There's sort of a hollow feeling inside me. And I keep thinkin' about times when I was a kid and got hurt and cried. He drew a deep breath. Oh my God, Ha Ha. I'd give most anything if I could bust out cryin' now. Well, Max Strand stood with his eyes closed, speaking his words slowly, syllable by syllable, like the tolin' of a bell. Ha Ha Langley stood with parted lips, like the spirit of famine drinking deep, joy unutterable, was glittering in his eyes. If Jerry wanted me to get this buried, he'd have said so, repeated Max Strand. But he didn't. He turned towards the dead face. Look at Jerry now. He ain't thinkin' about killin'. Nope. He's thinkin' about some quiet place for sleep. I know the place. There's a spring that comes out in a holla between two mountains. And the wind blows up the valley all the year. And there's a tree that stands over the spring. That's where I'll put him. He loved the sound of running water. And the wind'll be on his face. And the trail sort of marked the place. Jerry lad, would you like that? Now, while Max Strand talked, inspiration came to Ha Ha Langley. And he stretched out his gaunt arms to it, and gathered it into his heart. Mackey said, Don't you see no reason why Jerry wouldn't ask you to go after Barry? Eh, grieved Max Strand, turning. But as he turned, Ha Ha Langley glided towards him, and behind him, as if he found it easier to talk when the face of Mac was turned away. And while he talked, his hands reached out towards Max Strand, like one who is begging for alms. Mac, don't you remember that Barry beat Jerry to the draw? What's that to do with it? But he beat him bad to the draw. I seen it. Barry, wait it for Jerry. Understand? What of that? Mac, you blind? Jerry knows you'd be throwing yourself away if you went up against Barry at this Max Strand world, with a suddenness surprising for one of his bulk. Ha Ha Langley flattened his gaunt frame against the wall. Mackey pleaded, I didn't say you'd be throwing yourself away. It was Jerry's idea. Did Jerry tell you that, he asked? So help me God. Did Jerry want me to get Barry? Why wouldn't he persisted to vulture, twisting his bony hands together in an agony of alarm and suspense? Ain't it natural, Mac? Max Strand wavered where he stood. Somehow he argued to himself. It don't seem like killing is right here. The long hand of Langley touched his shoulder. He whispered rapidly. You remember last night when you was out of the room for a minute? Jerry turned his head to me, just the way he's lying now, and I says, Jerry, is there anything I can do for you? Max Strand reached up, and his big fingers closed over those of Ha Ha. Ha Ha he muttered. You was his friend. I know that. Ha Ha gathered assurance. He said, Jerry answers to me, Ha Ha, old pal. There ain't nothing you can do for me. I'm going west. But after I'm gone, keep Mac away from Barry. I says, why, Jerry? Because Barry'll kill him sure, says Jerry. I'll do what I can to keep him away from Barry, says I. But don't you want nothing done to the man what killed you? Old Ha Ha says Jerry. I ain't going to rest easy. I ain't going to sleep in heaven until I know Barry's been sent to hell. But for God's sakes, don't let Mac know what I want. Or he'd be sure to go after Barry and get what I got. Max Strand crushed the hand of Ha Ha in a terrible grip. Partner, he said, do you swear this is straight? So help me God, repeated the perjurer. Then said Max Strand, I got to leave the Barry and the other men, what I'll hire. Me? I've got business on hand. Where did Barry run to? He ain't run, cried Ha Ha, choking with a strange emotion. The fool, the damned fool, is waiting right down here in O'Brien's bar for you to come. He's daring you to come. Max Strand made no answer. He cast a single glance at the peaceful face of Jerry, and then started for the door. Ha Ha waited until the door closed. Then he wound his arms about his body, writhered in an ecstasy of silent laughter, and followed with long, shambling strides.