Silvertip's Search (11 page)

The shadow of Brender rose beside him and ran toward the ladder, staggering a little, because the pressure of the cords had shut off circulation somewhat and left his legs partially benumbed.

Silver followed. Something in his brain, beating like a metronome, measured off the seconds since the shooting had commenced. The booming echoes of it still seemed to live in the loft of the great barn. Perhaps ten seconds had passed since he opened fire.

And in that time, what had the watchers of Barry Christian done?

Brender was climbing down the ladder. Silver followed. Off to the right, through one of the wide doors of the building, he saw the glance of lantern light that fell on the dark bodies and the pale, gleaming faces of several running men. One of them pointed his hand and fired. Brender loosed his grip on the ladder and dropped to the floor beneath.

Had he been shot through the body?

Silver, swinging out from the ladder, tried a snapshot. The lantern went out; a man yelled sharp and short with pain. Another gun exploded. And now Silver was on the floor of the barn.

All was darkness. Voices and footfalls were retreating from the aisle in which he stood. Brender was not in reaching distance — therefore he must have run on to get to the mare, Chinook. Overhead, the voice of Stew rose like a steam siren, screeching:

“Silver! He's got Brender loose! Help! Silver's got Brender! Stop him! Stop him! Help!”

Every screaming phrase jagged through the brain of Silver like red lightning. Outside the barn, other voices were shouting, and then one pealing cry that rang above the rest:

“The rear door! Guard it!”

Was that the voice of Barry Christian?

Silver was pulling from its stall the mustang he had bridled. He heard the gasp of Brender calling his name. Now he was out in the aisle and astride the little horse, and before him Brender was whipping — a dim shadow — onto the back of Chinook.

“Straight back and through the rear door. Ride like a devil, Rap!” called Silver.

Then Chinook shot down the aisle and almost out of sight. The digging heels of Silver made the mustang lurch in pursuit. It sprawled, skidded, almost fell on the wet flooring. Then, straightening, working desperately, it shot out the doorway with a gathering speed.

Silhouettes of men were rising out of the ground like exhalations. Guns flashed.

A shape ran before Silver, shooting. He tried to fire. The hammer of his gun clicked on an empty chamber. He hurled the gun at the dancing shadow, and it was blotted out against the darkness of the ground.

Well before him raced Chinook, gaining ground with every leap.

“Right, Rap! Right! Right!” wailed Silver.

He saw Brender swing obediently to the right, skirting beyond the houses of the peons. Out of those houses large and small shadows were running like giant wasps out of huge nests.

The shooting had ended. It was a turmoil of voices only that raged behind him, and, mixed with it, the snorting of horses, the beating of racing hoofs.

Beneath him the frightened mustang was doing its best, but he knew that he had caught a slow mover. A dozen animals on that place would surely be able to move almost two feet for its one. So Silver whistled high and shrill and long, a call that Parade had learned to know of old.

Silver looked back, straining his eyes. Behind him he saw swift forms darting through the starlight. There were already half a dozen men in pursuit on fast horses. They called one to another. Above all the others rang one voice.

That was Barry Christian, and that must be Christian's horse which now forged ahead of the others. Chinook drew suddenly back. That was the work of Brender, gallant fool, pulling up his mount to rejoin his friend.

Something shot at Silver from the gloom ahead. He knew the great stride, the inquiring whinny, the lifting head of the stallion, and now Parade swung in at his side, crowding jealously against the mustang.

Silver made that change like a circus rider, at full speed. In an instant he was sitting in the saddle on the back of the stallion. He called, and the cantle of the saddle struck hard against his back as the big horse leaped into full stride.

With his left hand wound into the mane of Parade, he watched the riders of Barry Christian draw back rapidly into obscurity. He caught Chinook and Brender, and heard the Indian yell of triumph from the lips of Rap.

Then, as Silver swung far forward and fitted the bridle over the head of Parade, they left the soft going of the plantation and came out onto the wide, smooth face of the desert, and the rushing wind of the gallop seemed a noise made by wind in the last trees as they swept away into a mound of gloom in the rear.

Other horses were clattering out from the same trees. But what chance had they of overtaking two such flyers? Silver rated Parade to a long, easy lope that kept Chinook laboring to keep up, and gradually the noise of the pursuit melted away, and in the east a pyramid of soft light formed to show where the moon intended to rise.

Christian's Bargain

I
N
the hotel of Tom Higgins, Buck and Stew lay on their backs in small cots, side by side. Buck grinned at the ceiling with a wider display of white teeth than usual, for pain had puckered his cheeks a little and drawn the lips back. He was very white; his eyes were glassy, as though with fever. Without stirring an eyelid, he lay still and endured pain. Perhaps he would die, perhaps not. The doctor could not tell.

As for Stew, he drew in his breath through his nose and let it out again through his loose lips with a snoring sound. He kept his eyes closed. He would get well, the doctor had said. In the meantime, he either made that snoring sound with his mouth or else used his excess breath to curse steadily.

“Swine!” said Buck in a whisper.

“It was you,” answered Stew.

“Me what?”

“You that said it was Christian coming back up the ladder. You that throwed me off guard.”

“You heard him speak as good as I did. It sounded like Barry to me,” answered Buck. “I hope the soul of you leaks out through the hole he drilled in you.”

Big Tom Higgins was pacing up and down the room. He paused now and indicated the two wounded men with a gesture, while he turned to Christian.

“Look at that!” he said. “Good, ain't it? A fine thing for me to have a coupla thugs like that laid up on my hands if a sheriff or something comes by this way?”

“A few drinks of your bar whisky,” said the soft voice of Barry Christian, “will make a whole posse forget the job they're riding on. Don't worry, Tom. But think of the hard cash you'll be paid when this pair is cured.”

Higgins sighed. He wet his vast lips and rubbed them off with the back of his hand.

“I ain't arguing,” he declared.

Barry Christian rose and smiled on him. Then he stepped between the beds and looked down on the two wounded men.

He said: “You boys will get all that the doctor and Tom Higgins and his men can do for you. When you're cured, you'll get a lay-off and plenty of money to spend on your vacation. You're not being blamed because of what Silver managed to do. It's my fault. Silver being what he is, I ought never to have left Brender's side. There's no worry for you to keep on your mind. When your vacation is over, you'll come back to me. I won't see you again for a good many weeks probably. You'll know where to get in touch with me when you want me. So long!”

Christian turned and called: “Come here, Doc.”

Old Doc Shore appeared out of a corner unexpectedly.

“Where you been keeping yourself, old moss-face?” asked Stew.

Doc Shore divided his white beard with his fingers and smiled on the wounded man. Christian laid a hand on the shoulder of the old man.

He said: “Doc, you stay here and run things. Run everything, including what's outside. You're the one who got the message from Lawson to put Silver out, and you planned it well. You called in four big guns to do the trick. One of those guns went wrong, but that wasn't your fault. You couldn't tell that Rap Brender would cross us up. Nobody in my outfit has a better or a faster brain than you have, Doc.”

The pink-rimmed eyes of Doc Shore narrowed to slits of fire, so intense was his gratification. He said nothing. Christian waved to the two wounded men in farewell, saying:

“Trust Doc in everything. He'll take care of you boys.”

Buck feebly raised a hand in acknowledgment, but Stew continued to blow out through his lips with the snoring sound.

“Now,” said Christian to Tom Higgins, “I want you to tell me where I can find Murcio.”

“He's gone to bed,” said Higgins.

“Wake him up and send him down to the barroom,” said Christian. “I'll be down there helping myself. Hurry it, Tom!”

Higgins hesitated for half a breath, for he was not used to this calm voice of command. Then, as the eye of Christian flicked across his face, he turned in haste and went off with long strides.

Barry Christian went down to the saloon. The door of it being locked, he took a thin splinter of steel from his pocket and worked for an instant, after which the door opened under his hand and he entered. The place was ordinarily illuminated by two big lamps that hung suspended from the ceiling. They were out now, and the only light was from the moon, which sloped in through an eastern window.

Barry Christian stood for a moment inside the door and breathed deeply. It was not the aromatic scent of liquor that he was inhaling, but a far more ethereal fragrance of adventure, for over his mind flashed the pictures of many other rooms that he had seen by the secret light of night.

There was a lantern hanging against the wall. He raised the chimney, scratched a match, and touched the flame to the wick. Then he placed the lantern on the bar and went behind it. There was one bottle of Scotch whisky. He took that and retired to a little table that stood in the corner of the room. The lantern he left on the bar, running its dim fingers across the lines of colored bottles and setting their reflections in the mirror at their back.

He poured out a glass of the whisky, raised it, looked through its ominous amber color at the lantern flame, and then drank it off.

A footfall presently came across the veranda; a hand tried the outer door, opened it, and the round face of Murcio looked inside.

“Come in, Murcio,” said Christian.

The Mexican started back and jerked the door almost shut. Then he pushed it open again and entered. He stood with it partially ajar, his hand on the knob as though he were ready for flight.

“Well?” asked Murcio.

“Come in,” said Christian.

“I have to go,” answered Murcio. “I have to sleep. To-morrow there is a long ride to make.”

“Come in,” said Christian.

Murcio sighed, closed the door, and advanced unwillingly across the floor.

“I'm drinking Scotch whisky,” said Christian. “Go behind the bar and help yourself to anything you want.”

“Nothing,” said Murcio.

“Then sit down.”

The Mexican drew back a chair away from the table and sat down on the edge of it. Christian smiled at him.

“You should not be in bed,” said he.

“Why not?”

“You should be riding — you and Santos and the girl, with me.”

At this, Murcio lifted both his hands and his shoulders until his fat jowls were compressed.

“She is lost to us, señor!” he said.

“You mean that the little devil has slipped away?” asked Christian.

“No, she is still here. But we cannot take her on. She is lost. The cursed man, Silver, has come. He has seen her. He has seen Brender. They are both free. Nothing will keep them from getting to men of the law. All the desert, all the mountains between this place and Mexico, will soon be swarming with posses. Only the best of fortune can get us through even without her!”

“You think that they're riding straight away to get help. They won't do that. They won't dare,” said Christian.

“Dare?” said the Mexican.

“Brender is wanted by the law,” said Christian. “He can't show his face to a sheriff.”

“There is Silver.”

“He won't go to a distance. He'll hang about this place like a hawk over a chicken coop, and with him will be Brender. Ah, there's a romantic lad, Murcio. And the romantic spirit leads us all to do rather foolish things, now and then.”

“You mean that they are not riding now to get help? You mean that they are close by us, still about to attempt — no one knows what?”

“They won't come back to try for the girl, I think. Not to-night,” said Christian. “And that's the pity of it. Because if I could put my hands on them again — ”

He broke off with a sigh.

“At any rate, Murcio,” he said, “you should be in the saddle, you and Santos.”

“We start with the first light of the day, or a little before,” said Murcio. “But not with the girl.”

“If there are only Silver and Brender to think of, why should you be afraid — ”

“Only
Silver and Brender? Only two devils! And we are mere men.”

“And you give up the girl — the money?” asked Christian.

Murcio groaned.

“All the fortune!” he muttered. “She will stay in this country. Cursed lawyers will represent her. Soon her possessions will be sold, and my chances are gone!”

“A pity,” said Christian. “Now, suppose that I rode with you?”

“You? Why should you do that? There is no hope, señor. We could not carry her through. And I am losing priceless hours of sleep in vain. If we ride off with her, then either a thousand posses will stop us, or else — ”

“If we ride off with her and are not followed at heel,” said Christian, “I tell you, Murcio, that I can find twenty places in the mountains to the south where we'll never be found until the hunt dies down. Then we can ride on at leisure.”

“Are you sure?” said Murcio.

“But we'll be followed by the pair of them,” went on Christian. “You can be sure of that. Good men, Murcio, don't allow a poor young persecuted girl to be swept away by villains like us.”

He laughed soundlessly. Murcio shuddered as though the whisper broke like icy waves on his heart.

“They will be lingering close by,” said Christian. “You can be sure of that.”

“And if they are near, is it true that they have horses which eagles can hardly catch?” groaned Murcio.

“They have two good horses,” agreed Christian. “There is a golden chestnut stallion that Silver rides, and for the sake of that horse I think I would give up two fortunes like that of this girl. But there is a way in which we can leave even the stallion and his rider behind.”

“Tell me,” said Murcio.

“Of course I'll tell you,” said the genial Christian. “It happens that I have friends scattered here and there. For what is a man's life if it be naked of friendships, Murcio?”

“Go to the point! Go to the point!” groaned Murcio. “Friendships — yes, yes! I admit anything you want in the way of moralizing. But tell me how we can be snatched out of the hands of these two fiends?”

“In several ways, Murcio. We might draw them on into the desert and then turn back and fight them. I haven't your awe of them, quite. But better still, and more easily done, I'll send a man out from this place to ride far ahead of us. He will find, every fifty miles or so, certain friends of mine of whom I've been speaking. From each of them he'll ask half a dozen good, tough mustangs. And so we'll gallop along in relays, with fresh horses everyday. You understand? Not even that golden stallion will be able to keep up with us. In three days it will be worn out and fall back from a trot to a stagger. And the rest of us will go happily on!”

Murcio sprang to his feet. “It can be done!” he cried. “I feel it — and I see the happy ending. It
can
be done!”

“There's the price to agree on,” said Christian. “And then to horse and away, amigo.”

“Ah, the price! Yes, yes, the price!” groaned Murcio.

He slumped back into his chair and stared gloomily toward Christian.

“What will the whole estate come to?” asked Christian.

“Oh, it's a handsome thing,” said Murcio. “Perhaps two, perhaps even three hundred thousand dollars.”

“In cattle, eh?” said Christian.

“Yes, and in other things.”

“Three hundred in cattle, and then there's the matter of the good timberland down there in Central America, in San Nicador, say? That would be another two or three hundred thousand?”

“Not half so much!” exclaimed Murcio. “Who told you — ”

“Besides,” said Christian, “the items you have forgotten, such as stocks and bonds, here and there, and a number of little odds and ends of real estate.”

Murcio was silent for a moment. Then he burst out: “Where did you learn all of these things?”

“She has said two words, and you have said two, and Santos has said a dozen more,” said Christian. “It isn't hard for a good artist to paint a portrait after he's had even a glimpse of his subject. And for my services, Murcio, I'll take from you your note dated three months hence, for two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Two hundred — señor! Two hundred thousand, did you say?”

“Listen, my dear Murcio,” said Christian. “You won't deny me the right to be a thrifty man and to make a thrifty bargain, will you? Next to godliness, isn't thrift the most admirable virtue? And now I am giving you the chance to lay your hands on twice as much as I ask from you. I have drawn up the little paper here. Walk over to the bar and sign it, if you please.”

“Do you think that we can beggar her?” said Murcio, as a last resort. “Do you think that we can rob her shamelessly of her last penny?”

“With your law courts and with your cleverness, yes,” said Christian. “And besides, it will be a good thing. What is more touching, what is more appealing than innocence and beauty cast penniless into this harsh world?”