The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand
Читать онлайн книгу.
went out to your old place on the other side of the range. Drew, listen to me—”
“How many went after him?”
“Nash, Butch Conklin, and five more. Butch’s gang.”
“Conklin!”
“I was in a hole; I needed men.”
“How long have they been gone?”
“Since last night.”
“Then,” said Drew, “he’s already dead. He doesn’t know the mountains.”
“I give Nash strict orders not to do nothin’ but apprehend Bard.”
“Don’t talk, Glendin. It disgusts me—makes my flesh crawl. He’s alone, with seven cutthroats against him.”
“Not alone. Sally Fortune’s better’n two common men.”
“The girl? God bless her! She’s with him; she knows the country. There may be a hope; Glendin, if you’re wise, start praying now that I find Bard alive. If I don’t—”
The swinging doors closed behind him as he rushed through toward his horse. Glendin stood dazed, his face mottled with a sick pallor. Then he moved automatically toward the bar. Murphy hobbled down the length of the room on his wooden leg and placed bottle and glass before the deputy.
“Well?” he queried.
Glendin poured his drink with a shaking hand, spilling much liquor across the varnished wood. He drained his glass at a gulp.
“I dunno; what d’you think, Murphy?”
“You heard him talk, Glendin. You ought to know what’s best.”
“Let’s hear you say it.”
“I’d climb the best hoss I owned and start west, and when I come to the sea I’d take a ship and keep right on goin’ till I got halfway around the world. And then I’d climb a mountain and hire a couple of dead-shots for guards and have my first night’s sleep. After that I’d begin thinkin’ of what I could do to get away from Drew.”
“Murphy,” said the other, “maybe that line of talk would sound sort of exaggerated to some, but I ain’t one of them. You’ve got a wooden leg, but your brain’s sound. But tell me, what in God’s name makes him so thick with the tenderfoot?”
He waited for no answer, but started for the door.
CHAPTER XL
PARTNERS
If Drew had done hard things in his life, few were more remorseless than the ride on the great bay horse that day. Starting out, he reckoned coldly the total strength of the gallant animal, the distance to his old house, and figured that it was just within possibilities that he might reach the place before evening. From that moment it was certain that the horse would not survive the ride.
It was merely a question as to whether or not the master had so gaged his strength that the bay would not collapse before even the summit of the range had been reached. As the miles went by the horse loosened and extended finely to his work; sweat darkened and polished his flanks; flecks of foam whirled back and spattered his chest and the legs of his rider; he kept on; almost to the last the rein had to be drawn taut; to the very last his heart was even greater than his body.
Up the steep slopes Drew let the horse walk; every other inch of the way it was either the fast trot or a swinging gallop, not the mechanical, easy pace of the cattle-pony, but a driving, lunging speed. The big hoofs literally smashed at the rocks, and the ringing of it echoed hollowly along the rock face of the ravine.
At the summit, for a single moment, like a bird of prey pausing in mid circle to note the position of the field mouse before it closes wings and bolts down out of the blue, Drew sat his horse motionless and stared down into the valleys below until he noted the exact location of his house—the lake glittered back and up to him in the slant light of the late afternoon. The bay, such was the violence of its panting, literally rocked beneath him.
Then he started the last downward course, sweeping along the treacherous trail with reckless speed, the rocks scattering before him. When they straightened out on the level going beneath, the bay was staggering; there was no longer any of the lilt and ease of the strong horse running; it was a succession of jerks and jars, and the panting was a sharper sound than the thunder of the hoofs. His shoulders, his flanks, his neck—all was foam now; and little by little the proud head fell, reached out; still he drove against the bit; still the rider had to keep up the restraining pressure.
Until at last he knew that the horse was dying on his feet; dying with each heavy stride it made. Then he let the reins hang limp. It was sad to see the answer of the bay—a snort, as if of happiness; a pricking of the ears; a sudden lengthening of stride and quickening; a nobler lift to the head.
Past the margin of the lake they swept, crashed through the woods to the right; and now, very distinctly, Drew heard the heavy drum of firing. He groaned and drove home the spurs. And still, by some miracle, there was something left in the horse which responded; not strength, certainly that was gone long ago, but there was an indomitable spirit bred into it with its fine blood by gentle care for generations. The going was heavier among the trees, and yet the bay increased its pace. The crackle of the rifles grew more and more distinct. A fallen trunk blocked the way.
With a snort the bay gathered speed, rose, cleared the trunk with a last glorious effort, and fell dead on the other side.
Drew disentangled his feet from the stirrup, raised the head of the horse, stared an instant into the glazing eyes, and then turned and ran on among the trees. Panting, dripping with sweat, his face contorted terribly by his effort, he came at last behind that rocky shoulder which commanded the approach to the old house.
He found seven men sheltered there, keeping up a steady, dropping fire on the house. McNamara sat propped against a rock, a clumsy, dirty bandage around his thigh; Isaacs lay prone, a stained rag twisted tightly around his shoulder; Lovel sat with his legs crossed, staring stupidly down to the steady drip of blood from his left forearm.
But Ufert, Kilrain, Conklin, and Nash maintained the fight; and Drew wondered what casualties lay on the other side.
At his rush, at the sound of his heavy footfall over the rocks, the four turned with a single movement; Ufert covered him with a rifle, but Nash knocked down the boy’s arm.
“We’ve done talkin’; it’s our time to listen; understand?”
Ufert, gone sullen, obeyed. He was at that age between youth and manhood when the blood, despite the songs of the poets, runs slow, cold; before the heart has been called out in love, or even in friendship; before fear or hate or anything saving a deep egoism has possessed the brain.
He looked about to the others for his cue. What he saw disturbed him. Shorty Kilrain, like a boy caught playing truant, edged little by little back against the rock; Butch Conklin, his eyes staring, had grown waxy pale; Steve Nash himself was sullen and gloomy rather than defiant.
And all this because of a grey man far past the prime of life who ran stumbling, panting, toward them. At his nearer approach a flash of understanding touched Ufert. Perhaps it was the sheer bulk of the newcomer; perhaps, more than this, it was something of stern dignity that oppressed the boy with awe. He fought against the feeling, but he was uneasy; he wanted to be far away from that place.
Straight upon them the big grey man strode and halted in front of Nash.
He said, his voice harsh and broken by his running: “I ordered you to bring him to me unharmed. What does this mean, Nash?”
The cowpuncher answered sulkily: “Glendin sent us out.”
“Don’t lie. You sent yourself and took these men. I’ve seen Glendin.”
His wrath was tempered with a sneer.
“But here you are four against one. Go down and bring him out to me alive!”
There