The Rangeland Avenger - Max Brand
"It sure sounds straight to me," said Buck Mason.
"All right! Stand up."
Mason rose.
"Take off your hat."
The sombrero was withdrawn with a flourish.
"God's up yonder higher'n that hawk, but seeing you clear, Buck. Tell
us straight. Is Gaspar guilty or not?"
"Guilty as hell, your honor!"
A sigh from the prisoner. The last of life seemed to go from him, and
Sinclair braced himself to meet a hysterical appeal. But there was only
that slight drooping of the shoulders and declining of the head.
It was an appalling thing for Sinclair to watch. He was used to power
in men and beasts. He understood it. A cunning devil of a fighting
outlaw horse was his choice for a ride. "The meaner they are, the
longer they last," he used to say. He respected men of evil as long as
they were men of action. He was perfectly at home and contented among
men, where one's purse and life were at constant hazard, where a turned
back might mean destruction.
To him this meek surrender of hope was incomprehensibly despicable. If
he had hesitated before, his hard soul was firm now in the decision
that John Gaspar must die, and so leave Sinclair's own road free. With
all suspicion of a connection between him and Quade's death gone, Riley
could play a free hand against Sandersen. He turned a face of iron upon
the prisoner.
"Sandersen and Denver Jim, bring the prisoner before me."
They obeyed. But when they reached down their hands to Gaspar's
shoulders to drag him to his feet, he avoided them with a shudder and
of his own free will rose and walked between them.
"John Irving Gaspar," said Sinclair sternly, "alias Jig, alias Cold
Feet--which is a fitting and proper name for you--have you got anything
to say that won't take too long before I pronounce sentence on you?"
He had to set his teeth. The sad eyes of John Gaspar had risen from the
ground and fixed steadily, darkly upon the eyes of his judge. There was
infinite understanding, infinite patience in that look, the patience of
the weak man, schooled in enduring buffets. For the moment Sinclair
almost felt that the man was pitying him!
"I have only a little to say," said John Gaspar.
"Speak up then. Who d'you want to give the messages to?"
"To no living man," said John Gaspar.
"All right then, Gaspar. Blaze away with the talk, but make it short."
John Gaspar raised his head until he was looking through the stalwart
branches of the cottonwood tree, into the haze of light above.
"Our Father in Heaven," said John Gaspar, "forgive them as I forgive
them!"
Riley Sinclair, quivering under those words, looked around him upon the
stunned faces of the rest of the court; then back to the calm of
Gaspar. Strength seemed to have flooded the coward. At the moment when
he lost all hope, he became glorious. His voice was soft, never rising,
and the great, dark eyes were steadfast. A sudden consciousness came to
Riley Sinclair that God must indeed be above them, higher than the
flight of the hawk, robed in the maze of that lofty cloud, seeing all,
hearing all. And every word that Gaspar spoke was damning him, dragging
him to hell.
But Riley Sinclair was not a religious man. Luck was his divinity. He
left God and heaven and hell inside the pages of the Bible,
undisturbed. The music of the schoolteacher's voice reminded him of the
purling of some tiny waterfall in the midst of a mountain wilderness.
"I have no will to fight for life. For that sin, forgive me, and for
whatever else I have done wrong. Let no knowledge of the crime they are
committing come to these men. Fierce men, fighters, toilers, full of
hate, full of despair, full of rage, how can they be other than blind?
Forgive them, as I forgive them without malice. And most of all, Lord
God, forgive this most unjust judge."
"Louder!" whispered Sinclair, his hand cupped behind his ear.
"Amen," said John Gaspar, as his head bowed again. The fascinated posse
seemed frozen, each man in his place, each in his attitude.
"John Gaspar," said his honor, "here's your sentence: You're to be
hanged by the neck till you're dead."
John Gaspar closed his eyes and opened them again. Otherwise he made no
move of protest.
"But not," continued Sinclair, "from this cottonwood tree."
A faint sigh, indubitably of relief, came from the posse.
Riley Sinclair arose. "Gents," he said, "I been thinking this over.
They ain't any doubt that the prisoner is guilty, and they ain't any
doubt that John Gaspar is no good, anyway you look at him. But a gent
that can put the words together like he can, ought to get a chance to
talk in front of a regular jury. I figure we'd better send for the
sheriff to come over from Woodville and take the prisoner back there.
One of you gents can slide over there today, and the sheriff'll be here
tomorrow, mostlike."
"But who'll take charge of Gaspar?"
"Who? Why me, of course! Unless somebody else would like the job more?
I'll keep him right here in the Bent cabin."
"Sinclair," protested Buck Mason, "you're a pretty capable sort. They
ain't no doubt of that. But what if Jerry Bent comes home, which he's
sure to do before night? There'd be a mess, because Jerry'd fight for
Gaspar, I know!"
"Partner," said Riley Sinclair dryly, "if it come to that, then I guess
I'd have to fight back."
It was foolish to question the power in that grave, sardonic face. The
other men gave way, nodding one by one. Secretly each man, now that the
excitement was gone, was glad that they had not proceeded to the last
extremity. In five minutes they were drifting away, and all this time
Sinclair watched the face of John Gaspar, as the sorrow changed to
wonder, and the wonder to the vague beginnings of happiness.
Suddenly he felt that he had the clue to the mystery of Cold Feet. As a
matter of fact John Gaspar had never grown up. He was still a weak,
dreamy boy.
10
The posse had hardly thrown its masks to the wind and galloped down the
road when Sally Bent came running from the house.
"I knew they couldn't," she cried to John Gaspar. "I knew they wouldn't
dare. The cowards! I'll remember every one of them!"
"Hush!" murmured Gaspar. His faint smile was for Riley Sinclair. "One
of them is still here, you see!"
With wrath flushing her face, the girl looked at Riley.
"How do you dare to stay here and face me--after the things you said!"
"Lady," replied Sinclair, "you mean after the things I made you say."
"Just wait till Jerry comes," exclaimed Sally.
At this Sinclair grew more sober.
"Honey," he said dryly, "when your brother drops in, you just calm him
down, will you? Because if him and Gaspar together was to start in
raising trouble--well, they'd be more action than you ever seen in that
cabin before. And, after it was all over, they'd have a dead Gaspar to
cart over to Woodville. You can lay to that!"
It took Sally somewhat aback, this confident ferociousness.
"Them that brag ain't always the ones that do things," she declared.
"But why are you staying here?"
"To keep Gaspar till the sheriff comes for him."
Sally grew white.
"Don't you see that there's nothing to be afraid of?" asked John
Gaspar. "See how close I came to death, and yet I was saved. Why, God
doesn't let innocent men be killed, Sally."
For a moment the girl stared at the schoolteacher with tears in her
eyes; then she flashed at Riley a glance of utter scorn, as if inviting
him to see what an angel upon the earth he was persecuting. But
Sinclair remained unmoved.
He informed them of the conditions of his stay. He must be allowed to
keep John Gaspar in sight at all times. Only suspicious moves he would
resent with violence. Sally Bent heard all of this with openly
expressed hatred and contempt. John Gaspar showed no emotion whatever.
"By heaven," declared Sinclair, when the girl had gone about some
housework, "I'd actually think you believed that God was on your side.
You talk about Him so familiar--like you and Him was partners."
John Gaspar smiled one of his rare smiles. He had a way of looking for
a long moment at another before he spoke. All that he was about to say
was first registered in his face. It was easy to understand how Sally
Bent had been entrapped by the classic regularity of those features and
the strange manner of the schoolteacher. She lived in a country where
masculine men were a drug on the market. John Gaspar was the pleasant
exception.
"You see," explained Gaspar, "I had to cheer Sally by saying something
like that. Women like to have such things said. She'll be absolutely
confident now, because she thinks I'm not disturbed. Very odd, but very
true."
"And it seems to me," said Sinclair, frowning, "that you're not much
disturbed, Gaspar. How does that come?"
"What can I do?"
"Maybe you'd be man enough to try to break away."
"From you? Tush! I know it is impossible. I'd as soon try to hide
myself in an open field from that hawk. No, no! I'll give you my
parole, my word of honor that I'll make no escape."
But Sinclair struck in with: "I don't want your parole. Hang it, man,
just do your best, and I'll do mine. You try to give me the slip, and
I'll try to keep you from it. That's square all around."
Gaspar observed him with what seemed to be a characteristic air of
judicious reserve, very much as if he suspected a trap. A great many
words came up into the throat of Riley Sinclair, but he refrained from
speech.
In a way he was beginning to detest John Gaspar as he had never
detested any human being before or since. To him no sin was so great as
the sin of weakness in a man, and certainly Gaspar was superlatively
weak. He had something in place of courage, but just what that thing
was, Sinclair could not tell.
Curiosity drew him toward the fellow; and these weaknesses repulsed
him. No wonder that he stared at him now in a quandary. One certainty
was growing upon him. He wished Gaspar to escape. It would bring him
shame in Sour Creek, but for the opinion of these men he had not the
slightest respect. Let them think as they pleased.
It came home to Riley that this was a man whose like he had never known
before, and whom he must not, therefore, judge as if he knew him. He
softened his voice. "Gaspar," he said, "keep your head up. Make up
your mind that you'll fight to the last gasp. Why, it makes me plumb
sick to see a grown man give up like you do!"
His scorn rang in his voice, and Gaspar looked at him in wonder.
"You'd ought to be packing yourself full of courage," went on Sinclair.
"Here's your pal, Jerry Bent, coming back. Two agin' one, you'll be.
Ain't that a chance, I ask you?"
But Gaspar shook his head. He seemed even a little amused.
"Not against a man like you, Sinclair. You love fighting, you see.
You're made for fighting. You make me think of that hawk. All beak and
talons, made to tear, remorseless, crafty."
"That's overrating me a pile," muttered Riley, greatly pleased by this
tribute, as he felt it to be. "If you tried, maybe you could do a lot
yourself. You're full of nerves, and a gent that's full of nerves makes
a first-class fighting man, once he finds out what he can do. With them
fingers of yours you could learn to handle a gun like a flash. Start in
and learn to be a man, Gaspar!"
Sinclair stretched a friendly hand toward the shoulder of the smaller
man. The hand passed through thin air. Gaspar had slipped away. He
stood at a greater distance. On his face there was a strong expression
of displeasure.
Sinclair scowled darkly. "Now what d'you mean by that?"
"I mean that I don't envy you," said Gaspar steadily. "I'd rather have
the other thing."
"What other thing, Jig?"
Gaspar overlooked the contemptuous nickname, doubly contemptuous on the
lips of a stranger.
"You go into the world and take what you want. I'm stronger than that."
"How are you stronger?" asked Riley.
"Because I sit in my room, and I can make the world come to me."
"Jig, I was never smart at riddles. Go ahead and clear yourself up with
a few more words."
The other hesitated--not for words, but as if he wondered if it might
be worth while for him to explain. Never in Riley Sinclair's life had
he been taken so lightly.
"Will you follow me into the house?" asked Gaspar at length.
"I'll follow you, right enough," said Sinclair. "That's my job. Lead
on."
He was brought through the living room of the cabin and into a smaller
room to the side.
Comfort seemed to fill this smaller room. Bookcases ranged along one
wall were packed with books. The couch before the window was heaped
with cushions. There was an easy chair with an adjustable back, so that
one could either sit or lie in it. There was a lamp with a big
greenish-yellow shade.
"This is what I mean," murmured Jig.
Riley Sinclair's bold eye roved swiftly, contemptuously. "Well, you got
this place fixed up pretty stuffy," he answered. "Outside of that, hang
me if I see what you mean."
Cold Feet slipped into a chair and, interlacing those fingers whose
delicacy baffled and disturbed Sinclair, stared over them at his
companion.
"I really shouldn't expect you to understand, my friend."
"Friend!" Sinclair exploded. "You're a queer bird, Jig. What do you
mean by 'friend'?"
"Why not?" asked this amazing youth, and the quiet of his face
brightened into a smile. "I'd be swinging from the end of a rope if it
weren't for you, you know."
Sinclair shrugged away this rejoinder. He trod heavily to the
bookshelves, took up two or three random volumes, and tossed them
heedlessly back into place.
"Well, kid, you're going to be yanked out of this little imitation
world of yours pretty pronto."
"Ah, but perhaps not!"
"Eh?"
"Something may happen."
"What can happen?"
"Just something like you, my friend."
The insistence on that word irritated Riley Sandersen.
"Don't call me that," he replied in his most brutal manner. "Jig, d'you
know what a friend means?" he asked. "How d'you figure that word out?"
Jig considered. "A friend is somebody you know and like and are glad to
have around."
Contempt spread on the face of Sinclair. "That's just about what I knew
you'd say."
"Am I wrong?"
"Son, they ain't anything right about you, as far as I can make out.
Wrong? You're as wrong as a yearling in a blizzard. Wrong? I should
tell a man you're wrong! Lemme tell you what a friend is. He's the
bunkie that guards your back in a fight; he's the man that can ask for
your hoss or your gun or your life, no matter how bad you want 'em;
he's the gent that trusts you when the world calls you a liar; he's the
one that don't grin when you're in trouble, who gives a cheer when
you're going good. With a friend you let down the bars and turn your
mind loose like wild hosses. I take out my soul like a gun and show it
to my friend in the palm of my hand. It's sure full of holes and
stains, this life of mine, but my friend checks off the good agin' the
bad, and when you're through he says: 'Partner, now I like you better
because I know you better.'
"Son, I don't know what God means very well, and I ain't any bunkie of
the law, but I'm tolerable well acquainted with what the word 'friend'
means. When you use it, you want to look sharp."
"I really believe," Jig said, "that you would be a friend like that. I
think I understand."
"You don't, though. To a friend you give yourself away, and you get
yourself back bigger and stronger."
"I didn't know," said Jig softly, "that friendship could mean all that.
How many friends have you had?"
The big cowpuncher paused. Then he said gently at length, "One friend."
"In all your life?"
"Sure! I was lucky and had one friend."
Cold Feet leaned forward, eagerness in his eyes. "Tell me about him!"
"I don't know you well enough, son."
That jarring speech thrust Jig back into his chair, as if with a
physical hand. There, as though in covert, he continued to study
Sinclair. Presently he began to nod.
"I knew it from the first, in spite of appearances."
"Knew what?"
"Knew that we'd get along."
"And are we getting along, Jig?"
"I think so."
"Glad of that," muttered the cowpuncher dryly.
"Ah," cried John Gaspar, "you're not as hard as you seem. One of these
days I'll prove it. Besides, you won't forget me."
"What makes you so sure of that?"
Jig rose from his chair and stood leaning against it, his hands dropped
lightly into the pockets of his dressing gown. He looked
extraordinarily boyish at that moment, and he seemed to have the
fearlessness of a child which knows that the world has no real account
against it. Riley Sinclair set his teeth to keep back a flood of pity
that rose in him.
"You wait and see," said Jig. He raised a finger at Sinclair. "I'll
keep coming back into your mind a long time after you leave me; and
you'll keep coming back into my mind. Oh, I know it!"
"How in thunder do you?"
"I don't know. Just because--well, how did I understand at the trial
that you knew I was innocent, and that you would let no harm come to
me?"
"Did you know that?" asked Sinclair.
Instead of answering, Jig broke into his soft, pleasant laughter.
11
"Laugh and be hanged," declared Sinclair. "I'm going outside. And don't
try no funny breaks while I'm gone," he said. "I'll be watching and
waiting when you ain't expecting." With that he was gone.
At the door of the house a gust of hot wind struck him, for the day was
verging on noon, and there seemed more heat than light in the sun. Even
to that hot gust Sinclair jerked his bandanna knot aside and opened his
throat gratefully. He felt as if he had been under a hard nervous
strain for some time past. Cold Feet, the craven, the weak of hand and
the frail of spirit, had tested him in a new way. He had been
confronting a novel and unaccountable thing. He felt very oddly as if
someone had been prodding into corners of his nature yet unknown even
to himself. He tingled from the rapier touches of that last laughter.
Now his eyes roamed with relief across the valley. Heat waves blurred
the hollow and pushed Sour Creek away until it seemed a river of
mist--yellow mist. He raised his attention out of that sweltering
hollow to the cool, blue, mighty mountains--his country!
Presently he had forgotten all this. He settled his hat on the back of
his head and began to kick a stone before him, following it aimlessly.
Someone was humming close to him, and he turned sharply to see Sally
Bent go by, carrying a bucket. She smiled generously, and though he
knew that she doubtless hated him in her heart and smiled for a
purpose, he had to reply with a perfunctory grin. He stalked after her
to the little leaping creek and dipped out a full bucket.
"Thanks," said Sally, wantonly meeting his eye.
As well try to soften a sphinx. Sinclair carried the dripping bucket on
the side nearest the girl and thereby gained valuable distance. "I'm
mighty glad it's you and not one of the rest," confided Sally, still
smiling firmly up to him.
He avoided that appeal with a grunt.
"Like Sandersen, say," went on the girl.
"Why not him?"
"He's a bad hombre," said the girl. "Hate to have Jig in his hands.
With you it's different."
Sinclair waited until he had put down the bucket in the kitchen. Then
he faced Sally thoughtfully.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you're reasonable."
"Did Jig tell you that?"
"And a pile more. Jig says you're a pretty fine sort. That's his
words."
The cowpuncher caressed the butt of his gun with his fingertips, his
habitual gesture when in doubt.
"Lady," he said at length, "suppose I cut this short? You think I ain't
going to keep Cold Feet here till the sheriff comes for him?"
"You see what it would mean?" she asked eagerly. "It wouldn't be a fair
trial. You couldn't get a fair jury for Jig around Sour Creek and
Woodville. They hate him--all the young men do. D'you know why? Simply
because he's different! Simply because--"
"Because all the girls are pretty fond of him, eh?"
"You can put it that way if you want," she answered steadily enough,
though she flushed under his stare. Then: "you'll keep that in mind,
and you're man enough to do what you think is right, ain't you, Mr.
Sinclair?"
He shifted away from the hand which was moving toward him.
"I'll tell you what," he answered. "I'm man enough to be afraid of a
girl like you, Sally Bent."
Then he saw her head fall in despair, as he turned away. When he
reached the shimmering heat of the outdoors again, he was feeling like
a murderer. His reason told him that Cold Feet was "yaller," not worth
saving. His reason told him that he could save Jig only by a confession
that would drive him, Sinclair, away from Sour Creek and his destined
victim, Sandersen. Or he could save Jig by violating the law, and that
also would drive him from Sour Creek and Sandersen.
Suddenly he halted in the midst of his pacing to and fro. Why was he
turning these alternatives back and forth in his mind? Because, he
understood all at once, he had subconsciously determined that Cold Feet
must not die!
The face of his brother rose up and looked into his eyes. That was the
friend of whom he would not speak to Jig, brother and friend at once.
And as surely as ever ghost called to living man, that face demanded
the death of Sandersen. He blinked the vision away.
"I _am_ going nutty," muttered Sinclair. "Whether Sandersen lives or
dies, Jig ain't going to dance at a rope's end!"
Presently Sally called him in to lunch, and Riley ate halfheartedly.
All during the meal neither Sally nor John Gaspar had more than a word
for him, while they talked steadily together. They seemed to understand
each other so well that he felt a hidden insult in it.
Once or twice he made a heavy attempt to enter the conversation, always
addressing his remarks to Sally Bent. He was received graciously, but
his remarks always fell dead, and a moment later Cold Feet had picked
up the frayed ends of his own talk and won the entire attention of
Sally. Riley was beginning to understand why the youth of that district
detested Cold Feet.
"Always takes some soft-handed dude to make a winning with a fool
girl," he comforted himself.
He expected the arrival of Jerry Bent before nightfall, and with that
arrival, perhaps, there would be a new sort of attack on him. Sally and
Cold Feet were trying persuasion, but they might encourage Jerry Bent
to attempt physical force. With all his heart Riley Sinclair hoped so.
He had a peculiar desire to do something significant for the eyes of
both Sally and Jig.
But nightfall came, and then supper, and still no Jerry appeared.
Afterward, Sinclair made ready to sleep in Jig's room. Cold Feet
offered him the couch.
"Beds and me don't hitch" declared Riley, throwing two or three of the
rugs together. "I ain't particular partial to a floor, neither, but
these here rugs will give it a sort of a ground softness."
He sat cross-legged on the low pile of rugs, while he pulled off his
boots and smoked his good-night cigarette. Jig coiled up in a big
chair, while he studied his jailer.
"But how can you go to bed so early?" he asked.
"Early? It ain't early. Sun's down, ain't it? Why do they bring on
night, except for folks to go to sleep?"
"For my part the best part of the day generally begins when the sun
goes down."
With patient contempt Riley considered John Gaspar. "You look kind of
that way," he decided aloud. "Pale and not much good with your
shoulders. Now, what d'you most generally do with your time in the
evening?"
"Why--talk."
"Talk? Huh! A fine way of wasting time for a growed-up man."
"And I read, you know."
"I can see by the looks of them shelves that you do. How many of them
books might you have read, Jig?"
"All of them."
"I ask you, man to man, ain't they mostly somebody's idea of what life
is?"
"I suppose that's a short way of putting it."
"And I ask you ag'in, what's better to take a secondhand hunch out of
what somebody else thinks life might be, or to go out and do some
living on your own hook?"
Cold Feet had been smiling faintly up to this point, as though he had
many things in reserve which might be said at need. Now his smile
disappeared.
"Perhaps you're right."
"And maybe I ain't." Sinclair brushed the entire argument away into a
thin mist of smoke. "Now, look here, Cold Feet, I'm about to go to
sleep, and when I sleep, I sure sleep sound, taking it by and large.
They's times when I don't more'n close one eye all night, and they's
times when you'd have to pull my eyes open, one by one, to wake me up.
Understand? I'm going to sleep the second way tonight. About eight
hours of the soundest sleep you ever heard tell of."
Jig considered him gravely.
"I'm afraid," he answered, "that I won't sleep nearly as well."
Riley Sinclair smiled. "Wouldn't be no ways nacheral for you to do much
sleeping," he agreed. "Take a gent that's in danger of having his neck
stretched, like you, and most generally he don't do much sleeping. He
lies around awake, cussing his luck, I s'pose. Take you, now, Cold
Feet, and I s'pose you'll be figuring on how far a hoss could carry you
in the eight hours that I'll be sleeping. Eh?"