The Max Brand Megapack (126 page)

“So I sent Vic away before he had a chance to get real nervous. But when he comes back—well, boys, it’ll be kind of amusin’ to watch Vic’s face when he saunters into town tomorrow and sees Dan Barry—maybe dead, maybe in the irons. Eh?”

Only a deep silence answered him, but in the interest which his words excited the terror seemed to have left Ronicky and Gus. They rode close, their heads toward Sliver alone.

“There goes Vic,” mused Sliver. “There he goes—go on. Mac, you old fool!—scared to death, ridin’ for his life. And why? Because he believes some ghost stories he’s heard about Dan Barry!”

“Ghost stories?” echoed Reeve. “Some of ’em ain’t fairy tales, Sliver.”

“Jest name one that ain’t!”

“Well, the way he trailed Jim Silent. We’ve all heard of Silent, and Barry—was too good for him.”

“Bah,” sneered Sliver. “Too good for Silent? Ye lied readily enough: booze done for Silent long before Barry come along.”

“That right?”

“I’ll tell a man it is. Mind you, I don’t say Barry ain’t handy with his gun; but he’s done a little and the gents have furnished the trimmin’s. Look here, if Barry is the man-eater they say, why did he pick a time for comin’ down when the sheriff was out of town?”

“By God!” exclaimed Ronicky. “I never thought of that!”

“Sure you didn’t,” chuckled Sliver. “But this sucker figures that you and Gus and me will be easy pickin’s. He figures we’ll do what Vic did—hit for the tall pines. Then he’ll blow around how he ran the four of us out of Alder. Be pleasant comin’ back to talk like that, eh?”

There was a volley of rapid curses from the other two.

“We’ll get this cheap skate, Sliver,” suggested Ronicky. “We’ll get this ghost and tie him up and take him back to Alder and make a show of him.”

“We will,” nodded Sliver. “Have you figured how?”

“Lie out here in the bush. He’ll hunt around Alder all night and when the mornin’ comes he’ll leave and he’ll come out this way. We’ll be ready for him where the valley’s narrow down there. They say his hoss and his dog is as bad as any two ordinary men. Well, that’s three of them and here’s three of us. It’s an even break, eh?”

“Ronicky,” murmured Sliver, “I always knowed you had the brains. We’ll take this gent and tame him, and run him back to Alder on the end of a rope.”

Gus Reeve whooped and waved his hat at the thought.

So the three reached the point where the shadowy walls of the valley narrowed, drew almost together. There they placed the horses in a hollow near the southern cliff, and they returned to take post. There was only one bridle path which wound through the gulch here, and the three concealed themselves behind a thicket of sagebrush to wait.

They laid their plan carefully. Each man was to have his peculiar duty: Gus Reeve, an adept with the rope, would wait until the black stallion was cantering past and then toss his noose and throw the horse. At the same instant, Ronicky Joe would shoot the wolf-dog, and Sliver Waldron would perforate Dan Barry while the latter rolled in the dust, unless, indeed, he was pinioned by the fall of his horse, in which case they would have the added glory of taking him alive.

By the time all these details were settled the pale moonlight was shot through with the rose of dawn. Then, rapidly, the mountains lifted into view, range beyond range, all their gullies deep blue and purple, and here and there sharp triangles of snow. There was not a cloud, not a trace of mist, and through the crisp, thin air the vision carried as if through a telescope. They could count the trees on the upper ridges; and that while the floor of the valley was still in shadow. This in turn grew brilliant, and everywhere the sage brush glittered like foliage carved in gray-green quartz.

It was then that they saw Dan Barry, while the dawn was still around them, and before the sun pushed up in the east above the mountains. He came winding down the bridle path with the dawn glittering on the side of Satan, and a dark, swift form spiriting on ahead.

“Look at him!” muttered Sliver Waldron. “The damned wolf is a scout. See him nose around that hummock? Watch him smell behind that bush. The black devil!”

Bart, in fact, wove a loose course before his master, running here and there to all points of vantage, as if he knew that danger lurked ahead, but where he came close, with only the narrow passage between the cliffs, he seemed to make up his animal brain that there could be no trouble in so constricted a place, and darted straight ahead.

“They’re ours,” whispered Waldron. “Steady, boys. Gus, get your rope, get ready!”

Gus tossed the noose a little wider, and gathered himself for the throw, but it seemed as if the wolf saw or heard the movement. He stopped suddenly and stood with his head high; behind him the rider checked the black horse; all three waited.

“He’s tryin’ to get the wind,” chuckled Waldron, “but the wind is ag’in’ our faces!”

It was only a slight breeze, but it came directly against the lurking three; and moreover the scent of the sage was particularly keen at this time of the day, and quite sufficient to blur the scent of man even in the keen nostrils of Black Bart. Only for a second or so he stood there sniffing the wind, a huge animal, larger than any wolf the three had ever seen; his face wise in a certain bear-like fashion from the three gray marks in the center of his forehead. Now he trotted ahead, and the stallion broke into a gallop behind.

“My God,” whispered Sliver to Gus, “don’t spoil that hoss when you daub the rope on him! Look at that action; like runnin’ water!”

They came more rapidly. As if the rider knew that a point of danger was there to be passed, he spoke to his mount, and Satan lengthened into a racing gait that blew the brim of the rider’s hat straight up. On they came. The wolf-dog darted past. Then as the horse swept by, Gus Reeve rose from behind his bush and the rope darted snakelike from his hand. The forefeet of Satan landed in the noose, and the next instant the back-flung weight of Gus tightened the rope, and Satan shot over upon his side, flinging the master clear of the saddle.

It sent him rolling over and over in the dust, and Sliver Waldron was on his feet with both guns in action, sending bullet after bullet towards the tumbling body. Gus Reeve was running towards the stallion, his rope in action to entangle one of the hindfeet and make sure of his prey; Ronicky Joe had leaped up with a yell and blazed away at Black Bart.

It was no easy mark to strike, for the moment the rope shot out from the hand of Gus, the wolf-dog whirled in his tracks and darted straight for the scene of action. It was that, perhaps, which troubled the aim of Ronicky more than anything else, for wild animals do not whirl in this fashion and run for an assailant. He had expected to find himself plugging away at a flying target in the distance; instead, the black monster was rushing straight for him, silently. Indeed, all that followed was in silence after that first wild Indian yell from Ronicky Joe. His gun barked, but Black Bart was running like a football player down a broken field, swerving here and there with uncanny speed. Again, again, Joe missed, and then flung up his arm toward the flying danger. But Black Bart shot from the ground to make his kill. He could bring down the strongest bull in the herd. What was the arm of a man to him? His snake-like head shot through that futile guard; his teeth cut off the screams of Ronicky Joe. Down they went. The gun flew from the hand of Ronicky; for an instant he struggled with hands and writhing legs, and then the murderous teeth of Bart sank deeper, found the life. The dead body was limp, but Bart, shaking his hold deeper to make sure, glared across to the fallen master.

The third man had died for Grey Molly.

All this had happened in a second, and the body of Barry was still rolling when a gun flashed in his hand, drawn while he tumbled. It spat fire, and Sliver Waldron staggered forward drunkenly, waved both his armed hands as if he were trying to talk by signal, and pitched on his face into the dust.

The fourth man had died for Grey Molly.

No gun was destined for Gus Reeve, however. Black Bart had left the lifeless body of his victim and was darting towards the third man; the master was on his knee, raising his gun for the last shot; but Gus Reeve was blind to all that had happened. He saw only the black stallion, the matchless prize of horseflesh. He tossed a loop in the taut rope to entangle a bind foot, but that slackening of the line gave Satan his instant’s purchase, and a moment later he was on his feet, whirled, and two iron-hard hoofs crushed the whole framework of the man’s chest like an egg-shell. The impact lifted him from his feet, but before that body struck the ground the life was fled from it. The fifth man had died for Grey Molly.

CHAPTER XXIII

Bad News

News of t
he Killing at Alder, as they call that night’s slaughter to this day in the mountain-desert, traveled swiftly, and lost nothing of bulk and burden on the way; so that two days later, when Lee Haines went down for mail to the wretched little village in the valley, he heard the store-keeper retailing the story to an awe-stricken group. How the tale had crossed all the wild mountains which lay between in so brief a space no man could say, but first there ran a whisper and then a stir, and then half a dozen men came in at once, each with an elaboration of the theme more horrible than the last. The store-keeper culled the choicest fragments from every version, strung them together with a narrative of his own fertile invention, polished off the tale by a few rehearsals in his home, and then placed his product on the open market. The very first day he kept the store-room well filled from dawn until dark.

And this was the creation to which Lee Haines had to listen, impatient, sifting the chaff from the grains of truth. Down upon Alder, exactly at midnight, had ridden a cavalcade headed by that notorious, half-legendary man-slayer, Dan Barry—Whistling Dan. While his crew of two-score hardened ruffians held the doors and the windows with leveled rifles, Barry had entered with a gun and a wolf—a wild wolf, and had butchered ten men, wantonly. To add to the mystery, there was no motive of robbery for the crime. One sweeping visitation of death, and then the night-riders had rushed away. Nor was this all, for Sheriff Pete Glass, hearing of the tragedy, had ridden to Rickett, the county seat, and from this strategic point of vantage he was sending out a call for the most practised fighters on the mountain-desert. He wanted twenty men proved beyond the shadow of question for courage, endurance, speed, and surety in action.

“And,” concluded the store-keeper, fixing his eye upon Lee Haines, “if you want a long ride free of charge, and ten bucks a day with chow thrown in—some of you gents ought to go to Rickett and chin with Pete.”

Haines waited to hear no more. He even forgot to ask for the Barry mail, swung into his saddle, and rode with red spurs back to the cabin in the mountains. There he drew Buck Daniels aside, and they walked among the rocks while Haines told his story. When it was ended they sat on adjoining boulders and chucked pebbles aimlessly into the emptiness beyond the cliff.

“Maybe,” said Buck suddenly, “it wasn’t Dan at all. He sure wouldn’t be ridin’ with no crowd of gents like that.”

“A fool like that store-keeper could make a crowd of Indians out of one papoose,” answered Haines. “It was Dan. Who else would be traipsing around with a dog that looks like a wolf—and hunts men?”

“I remember when Dan cornered Jim Silent in that cabin, and all Jim’s gang was with him. Black Bart—”

“Buck,” cut in Haines, “you’ve remembered plenty.”

After a moment: “When are you going in to break the news to Kate?”

Buck Daniels regarded him with angry astonishment.

“Me?” he cried. “I’d sooner cut my tongue out!” He drew a great breath. “I feel like—like Dan was dead!”

“The best thing for Kate if he were.”

“That’s a queer thing to say, Lee. The meat would be rotted off your bones six years ago in Elkhead if it hadn’t been for Whistlin’ Dan.”

“I know it, Buck. But I’ll tell you straight that I could never feel towards Dan as if he were a human being, but a wolf in the hide of a man. He turned my blood cold; he always has.”

Buck Daniels groaned aloud as thoughts poured back on him.

“Of all the pals that ever a man had,” he said sadly, “there never was a partner like Whistlin’ Dan. There was never another gent that would go through hell for you jest because you’d eaten meat with him. The first time I met him I tried to double-cross him, because I had my orders from Silent. And Dan played clean with me—by God, he shook hands with me when he left.”

He straightened a little.

“So help me God, Lee, I’ve never done a crooked thing more since I shook hands with Dan that day.” He sat silent, but breathing hard. “Well, this is the end of Whistlin’ Dan. The law will never let up on him now; but I tell you, Haines, I’m sick inside and I’d give my right hand plumb to the wrist to set him straight and bring him back to Kate. Go in and tell her, Lee. I—I’ll wait for you here.”

“You’ll be damned,” cried Haines. “I’ve done my share by bringing the word this far. You can relay it.”

Buck Daniels produced a silver dollar.

“Heads or tails?”

“Heads!” said Haines.

The dollar spun upwards, winking, and clanked on the rocks, tails up. Haines stared at it with a grisly face.

“Good God,” he muttered, “what’ll I do, Buck, if she faints?”

“Faints?” echoed Daniels, “there’s no fear of that! The first thing you’ll have to do is to saddle her horse.”

“Now, what in hell are you driving at?”

“She’ll be thinkin’ of Joan. God knows she worried enough because Dan hasn’t brought the kid back before this, but when she hears what he’s done now, she’ll know that he’s wild for keeps and she’ll be on the trail to bring the young’un home.”

He turned his back cleanly on the house and set his shoulders tense.

“Go on, Lee. Be a man.”

He heard the steps of Haines start briskly enough for the house, but they trailed away, slowly and more slowly, and finally there was a long pause.

“He’s standing at the door,” muttered Buck. “Thank God I ain’t in his boots.”