Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US, page 380
“Why?”
“A professional wouldn’t have trusted to choking. He’d have used a touch of the knife. Nothing like a knife for neat, silent work, and dead men don’t come back to life and start hollering. So I think Jack’s an amateur... for that and other reasons. And, being an amateur, I’ll just lay you boys even that he’s in that little old house over the hills yonder... or has been there.”
“I’ll take you for twenty,” said Jerry Gloster instantly.
“And me,” chimed in Pete and Bob. Then the cavalcade started forward at a gallop toward the house.
They dipped over the hill and came upon a wretched little cottage leaning up the slope. A woman came to the door at their call, wiping her hands on her apron.
“‘Morning!” called the sheriff. “We’re trying to catch up with our pal. That gent on the gray hoss that was here a while back. Which way did he go?”
“Right on over the hill, there,” she answered, pointing. “Funny he didn’t say nothing about the rest of you coming along, though.”
“We got a surprise party for him, in a way of speaking,” said the sheriff. “How long ago did he start?”
“About half an hour.”
“Thanks.”
With a glance the sheriff gathered up his posse, and they started on. The silence behind Henry Larrabee was a tremendous thing. It set him smiling, as he rode to the top of that hill to which the woman had pointed. There he drew rein again. Below, lower hills tumbled this way and that, but the landscape was empty of all signs of a rider.
“By the way,” said the sheriff, “that bet we made a while back... I forgot that I don’t bet that way.”
“I sure ain’t going to be let off that easy,” said Pete Gloster generously. “I was getting to think that I knowed more’n you, Sheriff, and I’m getting off cheap at twenty dollars’ worth. Besides, why won’t you bet?”
“It don’t pay, somehow,” said the sheriff, “to win money out of the life of another man, even if he’s a murderer.”
V. LEFT IN THE RAIN
THERE WAS NO chance for further argument or comment on the sheriffs ideas. Not half a mile away, climbing out of a hollow and slowly mounting the hillside beyond, they saw a rider passing on a gray horse. Without a word, even of exultation, the posse lurched down the hillside. It was like the sudden breaking of a storm, this coming on the trail of the fugitive, after the meeting with the woman in the house. To his young companions the quiet-mannered sheriff seemed suddenly a prophet, a man of mysterious foreknowledge.
It was unquestionably the man they wanted. No sooner had he sighted the riders on the far slope than he leaned far forward over the saddle and urged his weary horse to fresh efforts, scurrying rapidly up the hill.
Tired his horse must be, but he had come the distance from the Zellar house at a far slower gait than the sheriff, and, accordingly, his mount had greater reserves of energy. He shot out of sight over the crest, and, when the sheriff and his men reached the same point, they saw Jack Montagne halfway up the farther slope. In spite of their frantic spurring he had gained on them, and he was still gaining.
“He’ll run us into the ground,” said the sheriff. “I’ll see if I can’t tag him.” Then he whipped the long rifle out of its case, tucked the butt into the hollow of his shoulder, and fired. The fugitive and his horse were flattened to the slope beyond, as if a great weight, falling from above, had crushed them. While the sheriff calmly tucked his gun back into the case, his posse rushed forward with a yell. They had their man.
Still, it seemed that Jack Montagne would flee blindly, pitting his speed of foot against the speed of galloping horses. Yet there was nothing to which he could flee. The hills were pitilessly bare, and there was not a tree — only scatterings of rocks, here and there. Yet he raced to the top of the hill and disappeared beyond it. A moment later the object of his flight appeared. He had run for the rocks of the summit in order to use them as a fort, and now he opened fire with the rifle which he had taken from the saddle when his horse fell.
Suddenly the sheriff drew rein with an oath, and the oath caused his companions to pull up their own mounts, for the sheriff was not a profane man. “Look!” said the sheriff, as the echo of the first shot died away. “He’s put his hoss out of misery, instead of trying to pot us.”
The gray horse had straightened out on the slope and now no longer struggled. While the horsemen stared, the rifle spoke again, three times. Not three yards away from the sheriff’s horse the bullets thudded into the mud, and all three landed within the compass of a man’s arm.
“He’s warning us back,” said the sheriff with another oath. “I told you he was an amateur murderer. If he can shoot like that, them three shots might have knocked three of us off our hosses. But he ain’t going to shoot to kill unless he has to. That’s his way of saying it.” Such seemed to be the only explanation. “That’s what I call politeness,” went on the sheriff, “but the law don’t make no allowances for such things. That gent yonder has done a murder, and he’s got to hang for it. Jud, skirt around to the right and get behind him. Pete, you go to the left. Bob and Jerry, ride back to the top of the hill and get down behind them rocks. I’m going to try a little politeness of my own.”
His directions were swiftly followed. Jud Larrabee and Pete Gloster, riding left and right, scurried off for the positions that had been assigned them, thereby placing Jack Montagne in the center of a circle of foes. Three or four times, as they rode, the fugitive fired, but each time the bullet struck a few feet in front of the running horse.
The sheriff turned straight to the right, disappeared for ten minutes, and came in view again at the top of a tall, steep-sided hill which overlooked the fortress of Montagne. Here the sheriff dismounted, ensconced himself on the crest, and placed himself flat on his stomach, with his rifle ready, his slicker keeping him out of the mud. From his position, only exposing the top of his head to the fugitive, he could look down on Jack and hold the latter at his mercy. And mercy the sheriff intended to show, if he could.
He saw Jack Montagne in the center of a number of low-lying rocks, among which he stirred about, keeping a strict lookout on all sides. The sheriff drew out his glass and focused it carefully, until he could see the face of the man distinctly. What he saw was of sufficient interest to keep him motionless for some time. But he knew that appearances are not half the story. The man had committed murder, he kept telling himself over and over, and yet, in spite of himself, the sheriffs heart was weakening. The generosity which had induced the fellow to end the suffering of his wounded horse with his first shot, instead of directing that bullet against the charging posse, and the manner in which his rifle had been used merely to warn the sheriff and his men away, these things struck directly to the heart of Henry Larrabee. He had had many a gruesome experience with outlaws and killers, but never before had he trailed a murderer who would not shoot to kill. Moreover, the consummate marksmanship of the man appealed to him. It was hard to believe that such an artist could have been guilty of the foul crime in the Zellar house.
But facts were facts. The sheriff, warned by the stinging impact of a drop of rain that he had not much time in which to work, gathered the butt of his gun closer and prepared to fire. Montagne was surrounded by rocks which would serve admirably to protect him from direct fire on the level, but there was none of sufficient height to protect him the angling fire of the sheriff in his commanding position. Moreover, Jack Montagne was hopelessly surrounded. Pete Gloster to the northeast, Bob and Jerry to the south — they lay in a loose circle around the central position. Sooner or later the fugitive would be starved into submission. There was only one chance for his escape, and that was in a driving rainstorm which might blot him out of sight and give him freedom to slip through. But the sheriff had a way of forestalling the storm that was now blowing again out of the north.
He took careful aim and, with exquisite nicety that would have done justice to Montagne’s own skill with a gun, planted a shot on the rock just beyond the fugitive. That warning ought to be sufficient to make the fellow see that his position was commanded, and that he would have to come out and surrender, unless he wished to be shot as he lay there. Larrabee laid aside his rifle and took up the glass minutely to observe the results of the shot.
He saw that Montagne had sprung up and was busying himself in a strange fashion, tugging at another deep-buried rock just before him. The sheriff gazed and wondered what this might mean until, with a supreme wrench, he saw the stone torn from its bed. Then he understood. With a shout of vexation he dropped the glass and snatched up the rifle again. But it was too late. Before he could draw the bead the second rock had been placed on the first — a Herculean feat of strength — and now the two stones made a perfectly safe shelter against the bullets of the sheriff, even in his commanding position.
Larrabee ground his teeth. After all, he had been a fool not to kill this man on the first sight. Now he looked anxiously to the north, but what he saw was greatly reassuring. The storm clouds were piling high, but along the horizon a rift had appeared. Rain was falling steadily, and heavier rain was coming, but it was obviously only a clearing-off shower, and the heart of it would pass over in a few moments.
Nearer and nearer came the sheet of rain, blotting out the whole north and consuming hill after hill in obscurity, as it swept along. Now he could no longer see the hill where Jud lay, and suddenly the storm struck his own position. In thirty seconds he could not see ten yards before him or behind, so terrific was the downpour.
Unquestionably Jack would attempt to break through the circle, but, before he traveled a quarter of a mile, the storm would have passed, and he would be in clear view and rifle range, point-blank.
Sweeping his slicker about him and sheltering the rifle under it, the sheriff waited, probing the heart of the downpour, in case the fellow should attempt to slip past, close beside him. But that was not likely. He would run down through one of the hollows between the hills and never risk meeting with the members of the posse.
Still the rain continued, unabating. In the sheriff’s anxiety it seemed to him impossible that so much water could ever have been drawn up into the atmosphere. But still it poured down, moment after precious moment, although at last he saw a gradual brightening to the north, and the hill where Jud lay came into view again like a ghost.
It was at this moment that his horse snorted, and the sheriff turned with an appeasing word to see the figure of a man rushing straight on him from behind. There was no time to handle a rifle. As the man drew out of the dense rain, a set, savage face came into view. Larrabee went for his revolver.
It stuck in the holster. The rain had got into the leather, so that it was glued for a moment to the gun, and, when the weapon came into his hand, the other was upon him. The sheriff dodged and fired, but, as his finger curled around the trigger, a long arm darted forth, a fist gleamed before him, and the blow landed flush on the point of his jaw. It did not knock him down, but it paralyzed both brain and body. As he staggered back, the revolver fell from his nerveless hand, and the next instant he was swept to the muddy ground in the embrace of bear-like arms.
What followed was done with lightning speed and precision. In the space of half a dozen breaths the sheriff found himself trussed securely, hand and foot, gagged and lying on his back, with the merciless rain whipping down into his face. The fugitive gave him hardly a glance, but caught up the fallen sombrero, flung it over the face of his victim to shelter him from the torrent, and, with this final and almost insulting act of grace, he was gone.
The splashing of the departing hoofs came back to Larrabee. His destined victim was galloping off on his own horse! That tale would be caught up and told and retold by a hundred tongues. In his anguish Sheriff Larrabee wished that he had died before this day ever came to him. Death was the final meed of every man, but shame should come to cowards only.
The rain diminished now, as if, like a traitor, it only wished to endure until Jack Montagne had used its shelter to escape. A moment later the brightness of the sun was about him. But when would they find him and set him free? How long before they rode again on the trail of that hard-fisted, slippery devil? How long?
VI. ALL ABOARD!
TWO DAYS LATER the joyless eyes of Jack Montagne looked down from the side of a foothill upon a streak of black, hurrying across the valley, with a trailing cloud of white drawn out above it. Montagne drew a great breath of relief. He looked back instinctively toward the mountains, rolling huge and sullen above him, as if he expected them to put forth an arm and catch him back.
After all the perils, he had escaped and come to easy-striking distance of the railroad, and the railroad meant freedom. In a few days it could carry him away to the ends of the country, where the names of Zellar and Benton were never dreamed of. He visualized himself in a far-off city, reading an obscure notice in an obscure paper about the futile hunt for Jack Montagne, wanted for murder. For by this time they had surely hunted back to the town of his origin, and there they had learned that other and shameful story, and his name with it.
He bowed his head at the thought of it. Then he shrugged back his shoulders and started his pony down the mountainside and toward the rambling collection of houses in the distance.
Two miles from the outskirts he came to a pleasant meadow, where a brook tumbled brightly in the sunshine. Here he dismounted, took off the saddle and bridle, and waved the horse away to freedom. The invitation was accepted with a snort and a flirt of the heels. For a moment, Montagne watched with a sigh, and then turned back to take up his trail.
He so timed his approach that he reached the vicinity of the town at dusk and then skirted about it to the railroad. Of course, it would not do to linger near the station, but that would not be necessary. Hardly a mile away the tracks started a stiff grade, where a freight train would have to labor slowly — so slowly that a man, agile of foot and sure of hand, could certainly take it with ease.
To this point he went, and, selecting a shelter between two bushes that would shelter him from the too-active eye of some brakie, as the train approached, he sat down to wait. The moon rose during his vigil, before he heard a far-off humming on the tracks, and then made out a train stopping at the town and starting again. That it was a freight train he had not the slightest doubt, as soon as he heard the redoubled labor of the engine as it reached the grade. Montagne rose, stretched himself, and, finding all his muscles playing smoothly in spite of the long period of inactivity, crouched again between the bushes and watched the train roar nearer.
The sound grew louder. The humming of the rails was now a heavy vibration. The rush of the exhaust was like the deafening noise of a great waterfall. With his brain reeling from the uproar, the blow fell that had been so long avoided. There was a sharp command from behind, and he wheeled to look into the muzzles of three revolvers held by grim-faced men.
It is said that remembered dreams are those which occur during the very act of waking. The mind, unencumbered by the slow processes of the senses that burden it during waking moments, plunges through enough events to fill a lifetime, all crammed into a second or two of actual time. So it was with Jack Montagne, as he faced the leveled guns and calculated the chances. There was not a line on a single face that he overlooked. Had there been a single symptom of weakness in a single face he would have taken the suicidal chance rather than submit. But there was no weakness. Every eye told him the same story: a readiness to kill on the slightest provocation on his part. So he pushed his hands above his head. To those who held him up it seemed that the gesture of surrender was made instantly!
“Suffering cows!” exclaimed Jack Montagne to the sheriff, recognizing his antagonist whom he had met during the rainstorm. “Is it possible that you’ve trailed me here?”
“Trailed?” asked the sheriff gently. “Not a bit. I just did a little guessing that you’d come over the mountains in this direction, and, if you did, you’d be sure to head for this town, and, if you headed for this town, you’d be sure to strike for this grade to nab a freight. All simple as daylight. Go through him, Jud.”
The last was addressed to his son, who now adroitly went through the pockets of Jack. The revolver, the pocketknife, tobacco and brown papers, and a square of sulphur matches was the total of the effects of Jack Montagne.
“He’s cached the money, somewheres,” said Jud. “Ain’t any sign of it.”
“Sure he’s cached it,” said the sheriff. “Any fool would do that, considering how much there is of it. Where’d you put it, Jack?” He added casually: “Of course, anything you say to us may be used against you.”
“I know,” said Montagne, “so I won’t say anything about the money.” And he smiled at the sheriff with what might have been resignation or mockery.
Larrabee considered that smile with the most intimate attention. “Bring down your hands,” he said, “but bring ’em down behind you, then keep moving slow.”
“Afraid I got another gun tucked up my sleeve?” asked Montagne.
“I’m afraid of you every minute,” replied the sheriff with astounding frankness. “I might as well tell you, so’s you’ll know that I’m on the watch for you, every minute. Come to think of it, we’ll handcuff your hands in front of you. Here you go.”
As Montagne obediently offered his wrists, the manacles were snapped over them. “A nice, new pair,” observed Montagne calmly, looking down at them.
His quiet manner shocked the younger men of the posse, but the sheriff seemed more and more interested in his victim.
“What’d you do with my hoss?” he asked. “I suppose you knew we’d sent descriptions of the hoss all over, together with descriptions of you. Did you drill her through the head and let her tumble down a ravine, some place?”
“I let the hoss run loose,” said Montagne, “just above town, yonder.”
