Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US, page 374
But he was studying her face, and the pain in it. All at once he dropped his hat and took her hands.
“Mary, it’s true?”
“About?”
“About Dreer? You’re sort of fond of him, Mary?”
“No, no! I hardly know him!”
“He’s the kind you only have to see once to know. I seen him once, and I know him already better’n any man I ever met. Mary, it’s true. You’re fond of him, sort of—”
“You’ve heard too much talk, Joe. Forget all that.”
Once more he turned toward the door. When he looked back again, she caught in his face an expression of profound pity. An instinctive fear rose in Mary Valentine; she slipped between him and the door.
“What’s behind your questions? Tell me that before you go. Do you know something — about — him?”
She was making no attempt at concealment now. Her heart was in her white face, in the great eyes that met the eyes of the boy. And he winced before her.
“Joe!” she cried under her breath. “They’ve taken him! That’s why Uncle Morgan and the rest have looked at me so queerly the last day or two. They’ve known, but they wouldn’t tell me!”
“Mary, I swear it isn’t that!”
“You’re lying, Joe. I can see the whole truth behind your eyes. Oh, Joe, tell me what’s happened! Tell me they haven’t taken him!”
But the boy shrank from her; there was something like fear in his face. He said, wondering: “Mary, you do love him!”
“I do. I’m proud of it, Joe. I love the ground he walks on and the air he breathes. One shake of his head is more to me than all the talk I’ve ever heard from men or women. You see that I’ve humbled myself to you, Joe. I’ve hidden nothing. And now — be just as true to me. Tell me what you know!”
He shook his head, agonized.
“There’s nothing that can be helped. It’s as good as done already.”
“What? For Heaven’s sake, what?” She stopped, her lips parted.
“Joe,” she whispered, “he’s already dead! They’ve hunted him down — with numbers!”
“No, no!”
“I can stand it — so long as I know. Anything is better than imagining.”
He could not speak.
“Only one thing. Tell me where it was—”
“If I’m wrong to tell you,” said the boy, “God forgive me. I’ve done you wrong before, Mary.”
“I’ll forgive it all — everything that may happen — but tell me the truth, Joe!”
“Then — it ain’t happened yet, Mary. But it’ll happen before morning is well on. An hour after the sun comes up. That’s the time they’ve set.”
“Then why are you here? Why haven’t you raised the town?”
“To save an outlaw?”
It crushed the words unspoken on her lips.
“Besides, they kept me at home under guard for fear I’d do something. When I got out, I came here. It was too late to follow ’em when they let me loose.”
“When did they start?”
“Late this afternoon.”
“And now it’s night!”
“Yes. Too late to do anything, Mary.”
“Where?”
“Near Windville.”
She ground both hands against her face.
And then she heard him say: “It’s too late. Even if it was day, it’d be too late, though then I might try to ride across the hills on the short cut. But by night — it’d be suicide, Mary!”
She had come to life suddenly.
“Oh, Joe, you know that short way — Would it take me there before morning?”
“Even then it’d be an hour too late — even if you killed your hoss, Mary.”
“But if I could fight all night — and come within an hour of saving him? Joe, you’ll show me the short cut?”
“I’d do more’n that. I’d ride with you, Mary. I got a — debt to Jess Dreer that needs paying terrible bad. But it ain’t possible, I tell you.”
She became calm, though her hands were shaking.
“I’m going into my room to change my clothes to an old suit of Charlie’s. While I do that, you go out to the barn and get the boys to saddle Uncle Morgan’s Gray Tom for me. You’ll do that, Joe?”
“Will nothing change you, Mary?”
“I’m not going because I have hope, but simply because I got to do something. Joe, will you help me?”
“I will.”
“God bless you!”
And she was gone through the door like a flash.
CHAPTER 38
HOPE IS CONTAGIOUS; even Joe Norman was touched by it as he hurried out to the stable. He gave the word from Mary Valentine, and it was obeyed with some hesitation, for no one on the ranch had ever heard of another person than Morgan Valentine himself riding the gray stallion. But they were accustomed to taking the word of Mary as a law second only to that of the master of the house. Or even before it, on occasion.
So they led out Gray Tom.
He was a fine fellow of fifteen three, muscled beautifully for speed, with long antelope legs.
“And enough bone in ’em to write poems about,” as Joe Norman himself had said.
The saddle of Mary Valentine was cinched on the long back of the stallion, and then she came herself, running as freely and swiftly as a man in her boy’s clothing. One word to Joe, one wave to the stableman, and they were into the saddles side by side and off at a rattling gallop.
The difference between the two mounts was at once apparent. Joe Norman rode a fine horse that would have rejoiced the heart of the most particular cattleman, a sturdy, stout-hearted, durable-legged animal with speed enough for any. But in the very beginning the cow horse was straining his utmost to keep up, and Gray Tom was running well within his strength, with a wide-stretching gallop. He carried his head high and free, while Norman’s horse was stretched out straight as a string.
“You’ll kill your hoss before you’re halfway there!” shouted Joe. “Rein in, Mary. You’ll kill Gray Tom!”
“Let him die,” she answered through her teeth.
“Morgan Valentine’ll never forgive you.”
“I’ll live without his forgiveness. Faster, Joe.”
“My hoss won’t stand it. He’s busting himself wide open now.”
She looked across at the laboring animal and at once saw the truth. If she were to keep with her guide, she would have to alter her speed, and reluctantly, with a sob breaking in her throat, she drew the rein of Gray Tom.
Even then they were cutting across the hills at a dizzy rate — and Windville so many and many a mile across the broken mountains!
They were striking straight for the tallest and blackest of the peaks now, and presently they dipped down a sheer bank and into the dry bed where a great river had once run. The shod hoofs of the horses beat up a terrific rattling, and the echo from the stones knocked against the banks and came back at them, before and behind.
It was hard going, too, with the danger always before them that one of the horses might pick up a sharp rock at any time and be rendered helpless, useless for that night’s work. But Mary Valentine was setting the pace, and Joe reluctantly spurred up beside her.
It was dangerous going, but the river bed gave them a perfect grade by which they ate into the heart of the high country. And Mary cried out in her disappointment when the gravel road terminated in an abrupt mound, where a landslide had buried the old bed.
There was nothing for it but to hit up the slope which lay straight head of them; as they struck the softer soil above the bank, Mary reined in her horse and raised her hand.
“Do you hear, Joe?” she whispered.
“Nothing. Where?”
“Out of the river bed behind us.”
“What?”
“Listen again!”
He bent his ear and now, indistinctly, he made out the far-off clattering of a horse that galloped across the pebbles.
“It’s Morgan Valentine,” he said gloomily. “They’ve told him about you taking Gray Tom, and he’s following you. Mary, be reasonable. Give up and go back!”
“I’ll die first,” sobbed the girl. “Come on, Joe. Hurry!”
And she sent Gray Tom scurrying up the slope.
Joe Norman followed reluctantly, shaking his head. But in this uphill going the shorter-legged mustang did far better, by comparison, than he had done in the level. He was made for the sweat and grind of climbing, jumping, sidestepping rocks, vaulting over fallen trees. And obstacles that maddened the high-spirited Gray Tom were taken in the most casual manner by the cow pony.
It was only a brief climb to the first ridge, but when they came out on it, Joe Norman stretched out his hand and caught the reins in the hand of Mary.
“Look ahead!” he commanded.
The girl obeyed, and her heart sank.
Ridge after ridge lay before them, sharp-crested, with the rocks on the summits glittering in the moonlight and the forest everywhere black, somber. It was such a sight as everywhere sends the thoughts of men to the shelter of a home. And as she looked on it, despair fell on Mary Valentine.
“And that’s not all,” said Joe Norman. “They’s a lot more of it than you can see from here. We’re just on the edge of it. Them ranges are like rows of teeth. And the sides of some of ’em are as slippery as teeth. Mary, give it up. They ain’t any use. You’ll kill Gray Tom, and you’ll kill my hoss. I don’t care about that if we could gain anything in the long run. But we can’t. We’re beat before we start. We was beat before we left the house, and I knew it, but I thought I’d come out with you and let you take the first run, so’s the night wind would calm you up some, and you could see it was impossible.”
“Then you lied, Joe. You said it could be done by day.”
“I dunno. Maybe it could be done by day. But by night it’s pure suicide. Will you believe me, Mary? There’s slides that take your breath even when you got the sun to help you. But the moon ain’t any good for ticklish work. It just shows you a pile of things that really ain’t there. And the real dangers it covers up. Will you believe me, Mary, and turn back?”
“Go back yourself, Joe. I’ll go on. I’ve got to go on. But you go back, and I’ll find a way.”
She touched Gray Tom with her spurs as she spoke, and the big stallion sprang out to the full length of his stride. He landed far down the slope, crashed upon some loose rock, staggered, and then plunged out of sight in the thicket with the noise of a living landslide.
Joe Norman screamed: “Mary! You’re gone mad! Mary!”
Only the noise of her wild descent roared back at him. He spurred his own mustang with a shout of horror and galloped after her. But more carefully, letting the half-wild horse have his head partly to himself, for he knew that the instinct of the brute was all that could save them from being dashed to pieces a thousand times in such a place; no cunning of hand or sharpness of eye could warn the rider in time.
It was a nightmare to Joe Norman. Somehow, they came out on the clearing at the bottom of the slope, and stretching across the open ground, he saw Gray Tom flash in the moonlight and then lunge once more into the dark of the forest toward the next ridge.
An exultation that was half the cold of fear ran through the veins of Joe Norman. He spurred his horse frantically, and striking the far slope at full speed, they followed the crash of Gray Tom, leading the way. Close to the top, he shouted again, and when he reached the ridge, he found that she had reined her horse for a moment and was waiting for him. Gray Tom was panting as if he had run twenty miles.
“You’re killing him,” he warned her. “But let him die, then. More to the left, Mary. You see that tall, bald rock? Holy Mount they call it? Strike toward that!”
“Thanks, Joe. But faster, Joe. You keep me back!”
“I keep you back to sense. But come on!”
But there was no keeping the girl back. Once more she spurred Gray Tom, and once more the stallion, frantic in this wild ride, leaped out through thin air, smashed into the thicket far below, and went thundering toward the bottom of the slope. A sort of frenzy seized on Joe. With spur and quirt he sent the mustang flying down after the girl, and the wild horse went snorting, dancing like a sparring pugilist through the maze of young trees and shrubs, and coming out at the bottom almost even with Gray Tom.
In the middle of the narrow valley floor Joe Norman drew rein with a low cry of warning. The girl checked her horse.
“Look up and back. Up to the top of the last ridge, just where we come over it!”
She obeyed, and distinctly outlined, black against the moonlit sky, she saw a horseman top the ridge and shoot down into the forest with a noise that came distinctly to them.
“That’s not your uncle, Mary. Your uncle would never ride as crazily as that. Who is it?”
“I don’t know. It might be Uncle Morgan. But there was something I recognized about the way he sat the saddle, sort of sidewise. But come on, Joe. Whoever he is, he can’t catch us.”
And they drove together at the next slope.
Fear was in them now, not so much of the dangerous trail which they were following as of the unknown man who rode so desperately after them. For if he had been a friend, surely he would have tried to hail them. From the top of that last ridge he could easily have reached them with his voice, but they had not heard a sound.
This slope was not so heartbreaking as the others, but, nevertheless, Mary Valentine held Gray Tom in. The harshness of his breathing was beginning to alarm her, and she knew that it is possible to break the heart of a horse in a very short time if he is allowed to run himself out. So she nursed the stallion up the slope. He was in better condition already when he reached the top, and as they swung in a canter down a more moderate fall of ground beyond, Mary swung close to Joe.
“I’ve remembered who that was like,” she called. “The man who’s following us is Sheriff Caswell!”
CHAPTER 39
IT WAS A calamity of the first water. What was the use of riding to Jess Dreer if they brought his deadliest enemy in their wake? One hope remained, and that was to distance the sheriff and reach Jess far enough ahead to allow him to escape.
So they gave their minds grimly to their work.
They had not even time to talk, save a broken phrase here and there, but as the ride continued, she gathered the full details of the plan of the Norman clan against Dreer.
Gus Norman was to ride ahead of the rest and go straight to Dreer. There he would interview the outlaw and take him to a shack which he knew in the hills near Windville. Mary learned the location of the place by heart from Joe, who had heard Gus go over its description a dozen times to a dozen different members of the gang. He would take Jess Dreer to this ruined old cabin as to a rendezvous.
Then he would leave the outlaw there and go to meet the others under pretense of calling in the members of the crew who were to take part in the fake robbery.
The moment Gus had joined the others, they would swing down around the cabin and open a plunging fire from the rocks above. If, as was apt to be the case, they did not kill Dreer at the first discharge, they would, nevertheless, have him in an utterly helpless position. At worst, they could easily set the cabin on fire and kill the outlaw as he attempted to flee from the cover. To make his escape entirely impossible, the first discharge would be chiefly directed against the roan mare, Angelina. On foot, Dreer’s chances of a dash for liberty would be less than zero.
Mary did not hear this story in one fluent narrative, but an interrupted series of explanations, exclamations, and phrases here and there gave her ample groundwork on which to build the complete picture of the plot.
Sometimes, as her hatred of the whole clan of Normans swelled in her, she felt like snatching a revolver from the holsters and firing it into the breast of the man beside her. Sometimes a great wonder grew in her that out of the very list of Dreer’s enemies had been furnished the man who gave life to this wan ghost of a last hope.
Now the labor of the ride cut off the very possibility of thought from her mind.
They had struck what Joe assured her was the longest and most severe of the hillsides that they would encounter on the entire ride. It led up to a dangerous slope beyond, generally called The Slide, on account of the precipitous angle of the drop of ground. And now Joe Norman, who had been a weight upon her spirits in the beginning, was rapidly reviving.
He began to throw out hopes. Never, even in daylight, had he ever heard of such a distance through the hills being covered in such a short space of time. To be sure, the hardest part of the ride lay before them, and they would have to take it with horses completely fagged, but, nevertheless, there was the glimmering of the first dawn of hope. It might be done. Half the night was spent, but the other half, before that fatal time of an hour past dawn, they might reach the shack and give the warning to Jess Dreer.
He told her this while the horses sweated and grunted up the long rise. Once, on a shoulder of the slope, they paused by mutual consent to give the animals a breathing space.
Then, far and dim below, they heard the horse of the pursuer coming up the slope.
At this, they hurried on, the mustang now showing a condition fully as good as that of Gray Tom; but when they came out on the brow on the crest, Joe Norman stopped the girl with a yell of alarm.
The face of the hill was dished away. It had literally disappeared, and the head of Gray Tom was hanging over an abyss.
“A landslide!” groaned Joe Norman.
By the moonlight they could make it out plainly now. First there was a straight fall of cliff for a dizzy distance. Below this an apron of debris was spread, covered with what seemed to be stubble in the distance, but what they knew to be the splintered hulks of trees.
Even as they stood, their horses side by side, looking at one another in utter despair, the ground quivered beneath them. They were barely able to spur onto firmer ground when the entire table where they had stood before gave way, shuddered, yawned wide, and a thundering avalanche rushed down the slope.
The noise of the fall died away. A thick silence fell. Then the echo from the far hillside picked up the noise and sent it rumbling and rushing back at them, as if the landslide had roused some monster in the valley and made it roar defiance. When that echo died away, they could hear another sound distinctly from the hillside behind them — the noise of the pursuer following up the slope. He would be upon them in a moment.
