Max Brand (2 page)

"Those horses are aiming at water," he said. "Can't we follow 'em?"

"They're aiming for a hole fifty miles away. No, we can't follow 'em!"

They started on again, and now, after that cruel moment of hope, it was
redoubled labor. Quade was cursing thickly with every other step. When
it came his turn to ride he drew Lowrie to one side, and they conversed
long together, with side glances at Sinclair.

Vaguely he guessed the trend of their conversation, and vaguely he
suspected their treacherous meanness. Yet he dared not speak, even had
his pride permitted.

It was the same story over again when Lowrie walked. Quade rode aside
with Sandersen, and again, with the wolfish side glances, they eyed the
injured man, while they talked. At the next halt they faced him.
Sandersen was the spokesman.

"We've about made up our minds, Hal," he said deliberately, "that you
got to be dropped behind for a time. We're going on to find water. When
we find it we'll come back and get you. Understand?"

Sinclair moistened his lips, but said nothing.

Then Sandersen's voice grew screechy with sudden passion. "Say, do you
want three men to die for one? Besides, what good could we do?"

"You don't mean it," declared Sinclair. "Sandersen, you don't mean it!
Not alone out here! You boys can't leave me out here stranded. Might as
well shoot me!"

All were silent. Sandersen looked to Lowrie, and the latter stared at
the sand. It was Quade who acted.

Stepping to the side of Sinclair he lifted him easily in his powerful
arms and lowered him to the sands. "Now, keep your nerve," he advised.
"We're coming back."

He stumbled a little over the words. "It's all of us or none of us," he
said. "Come on, boys.
My
conscience is clear!"

They turned their horses hastily to the hills, and, when the voice of
Sinclair rang after them, not one dared turn his head.

"Partners, for the sake of all the work we've done together—don't do
this!"

In a shuddering unison they spurred their horses and raised the weary
brutes into a gallop; the voice faded into a wail behind them. And
still they did not look back.

For that matter they dared not look at one another, but pressed on,
their eyes riveted to the hills. Once Lowrie turned his head to mark
the position of the sun. Once Sandersen, in the grip of some passion of
remorse or of fear of death, bowed his head with a strange moan. But,
aside from that, there was no sound or sign between them until, hardly
an hour and a half after leaving Sinclair, they found water.

At first they thought it was a mirage. They turned away from it by
mutual assent. But the horses had scented drink, and they became
unmanageable. Five minutes later the animals were up to their knees in
the muddy water, and the men were floundering breast deep, drinking,
drinking, drinking.

After that they sat about the brink staring at one another in a stunned
fashion. There seemed no joy in that delivery, for some reason.

"I guess Sinclair will be a pretty happy gent when he sees us coming
back," said Sandersen, smiling faintly.

There was no response from the others for a moment. Then they began to
justify themselves hotly.

"It was your idea, Quade."

"Why, curse your soul, weren't you glad to take the idea? Are you going
to blame it on to me?"

"What's the blame?" asked Lowrie. "Ain't we going to bring him water?"

"Suppose he ever tells we left him? We'd have to leave these parts
pronto!"

"He'll never tell. We'll swear him."

"If he does talk, I'll stop him pretty sudden," said Lowrie, tapping
his holster significantly.

"Will you? What if he puts that brother of his on your trail?"

Lowrie swallowed hard. "Well—" he began, but said no more.

They mounted in a new silence and took the back trail slowly. Not until
the evening began to fall did they hurry, for fear the darkness would
make them lose the position of their comrade. When they were quite near
the place, the semidarkness had come, and Quade began to shout in his
tremendous voice. Then they would listen, and sometimes they heard an
echo, or a voice like an echo, always at a great distance.

"Maybe he's started crawling and gone the wrong way. He should have sat
still," said Lowrie, "because—"

"Oh, Lord," broke in Sandersen, "I knew it! I been seeing it all the
way!" He pointed to a figure of a man lying on his back in the sand,
with his arms thrown out crosswise. They dismounted and found Hal
Sinclair dead and cold. Perhaps the insanity of thirst had taken him;
perhaps he had figured it out methodically that it was better to end
things before the madness came. There was a certain stern repose about
his face that favored this supposition. He seemed much older. But,
whatever the reason, Hal Sinclair had shot himself cleanly through the
head.

"You see that face?" asked Lowrie with curious quiet. "Take a good
look. You'll see it ag'in."

A superstitious horror seized on Sandersen. "What d'you mean, Lowrie?
What d'you mean?"

"I mean this! The way he looks now he's a ringer for Riley Sinclair.
And, you mark me, we're all going to see Riley Sinclair, face to face,
before we die!"

"He'll never know," said Quade, the stolid. "Who knows except us? And
will one of us ever talk?" He laughed at the idea.

"I dunno," whispered Sandersen. "I dunno, gents. But we done an awful
thing, and we're going to pay—we're going to pay!"

Their trails divided after that. Sandersen and Quade started back for
Sour Creek. At the parting of the ways Lowrie's last word was for
Sandersen.

"You started this party, Sandersen. If they's any hell coming out of
it, it'll fall chiefly on you. Remember, because I got one of your own
hunches!"

After that Lowrie headed straight across the mountains, traveling as
much by instinct as by landmarks. He was one of those men who are born
to the trail. He stopped in at Four Pines, and there he told the story
on which he and Sandersen and Quade had agreed. Four Pines would spread
that tale by telegraph, and Riley Sinclair would be advised beforehand.
Lowrie had no desire to tell the gunfighter in person of the passing of
Hal Sinclair. Certainly he would not be the first man to tell the
story.

He reached Colma late in the afternoon, and a group instantly formed
around him on the veranda of the old hotel. Four Pines had indeed
spread the story, and the crowd wanted verification. He replied as
smoothly as he could. Hal Sinclair had broken his leg in a fall from
his horse, and they had bound it up as well as they could. They had
tied him on his horse, but he could not endure the pain of travel. They
stopped, nearly dying from thirst. Mortification set in. Hal Sinclair
died in forty-eight hours after the halt.

Four Pines had accepted the tale. There had been more deadly stories
than this connected with the desert. But Pop Hansen, the proprietor,
drew Lowrie to one side.

"Keep out of Riley's way for a while. He's all het up. He was fond of
Hal, you know, and he takes this bad. Got an ugly way of asking
questions, and—"

"The truth is the truth," protested Lowrie. "Besides—"

"I know—I know. But jest make yourself scarce for a couple of days."

"I'll keep on going, Pop. Thanks!"

"Never mind, ain't no hurry. Riley's out of town and won't be back for
a day or so. But, speaking personal, I'd rather step into a nest of
rattlers than talk to Riley, the way he's feeling now."

Lowrie climbed slowly up the stairs to his room, thinking very hard. He
knew the repute of Riley Sinclair, and he knew the man to be even worse
than reputation, one of those stern souls who exact an eye for an
eye—and even a little more.

Once in his room he threw himself on his bed. After all there was no
need for a panic. No one would ever learn the truth. To make surety
doubly sure he would start early in the dawn and strike out for far
trails. The thought had hardly come to him when he dismissed it. A
flight would call down suspicion on him, and Riley Sinclair would be
the first to suspect. In that case distance would not save him, not
from that hard and tireless rider.

To help compose his thoughts he went to the washstand and bathed his
hot face. He was drying himself when there was a tap on the door.

"Can I come in?" asked a shrill voice.

He answered in the affirmative, and a youngster stepped into the room.

"You're Lowrie?"

"Yep."

"They's a gent downstairs wants you to come down and see him."

"Who is it?"

"I dunno. We just moved in from Conway. I can point him out to you on
the street."

Lowrie followed the boy to the window, and there, surrounded by half a
dozen serious-faced men, stood Riley Sinclair, tall, easy, formidable.
The sight of Sinclair filled Lowrie with dismay. Pushing a silver coin
into the hand of the boy, he said: "Tell him—tell him—I'm coming
right down."

As soon as the boy disappeared, Lowrie ran to the window which opened
on the side of the house. When he looked down his hope fled. At one
time there had been a lean-to shed running along that side of the
building. By the roof of it he could have got to the ground unseen. Now
he remembered that it had been torn down the year before; there was a
straight and perilous drop beneath the window. As for the stairs, they
led almost to the front door of the building. Sinclair would be sure to
see him if he went down there.

Of the purpose of the big man he had no doubt. His black guilt was so
apparent to his own mind that it seemed impossible that the keen eyes
of Sinclair had not looked into the story of Hal's broken leg and seen
a lie. Besides, the invitation through a messenger seemed a hollow
lure. Sinclair wished to fight him and kill him before witnesses who
would attest that Lowrie had been the first to go for his gun.

Fight? Lowrie looked down at his hand and found that the very wrist was
quivering. Even at his best he felt that he would have no chance. Once
he had seen Sinclair in action in Lew Murphy's old saloon, had seen Red
Jordan get the drop, and had watched Sinclair shoot his man
deliberately through the shoulder. Red Jordan was a cripple for life.

Suppose he walked boldly down, told his story, and trusted to the skill
of his lie? No, he knew his color would pale if he faced Sinclair.
Suppose he refused to fight? Better to die than be shamed in the
mountain country.

He hurried to the window for another look into the street, and he found
that Sinclair had disappeared. Lowrie's knees buckled under his weight.
He went over to the bed, with short steps like a drunken man, and
lowered himself down on it.

Sinclair had gone into the hotel, and doubtless that meant that he had
grown impatient. The fever to kill was burning in the big man. Then
Lowrie heard a steady step come regularly up the stairs. They creaked
under a heavy weight.

Lowrie drew his gun. It caught twice; finally he jerked it out in a
frenzy. He would shoot when the door opened, without waiting, and then
trust to luck to fight his way through the men below.

In the meantime the muzzle of the revolver wabbled crazily from side to
side, up and down. He clutched the barrel with the other hand. And
still the weapon shook.

Curling up his knee before his breast he ground down with both hands.
That gave him more steadiness; but would not this contorted position
destroy all chance of shooting accurately? His own prophecy, made over
the dead body of Hal Sinclair, that all three of them would see that
face again, came back to him with a sense of fatality. Some
forward-looking instinct, he assured himself, had given him that
knowledge.

The step upon the stairs came up steadily. But the mind of Lowrie,
between the steps, leaped hither and yon, a thousand miles and back.
What if his nerve failed him at the last moment? What if he buckled and
showed yellow and the shame of it followed him? Better a hundred times
to die by his own hand.

Excitement, foreboding, the weariness of the long trail—all were
working upon Lowrie.

Nearer drew the step. It seemed an hour since he had first heard it
begin to climb the stairs. It sounded heavily on the floor outside his
door. There was a heavy tapping on the door itself. For an instant the
clutch of Lowrie froze around his gun; then he twitched the muzzle back
against his own breast and fired.

There was no pain—only a sense of numbness and a vague feeling of torn
muscles, as if they were extraneous matter. He dropped the revolver on
the bed and pressed both hands against his wound. Then the door opened,
and there appeared, not Riley Sinclair, but Pop Hansen.

"What in thunder—" he began.

"Get Riley Sinclair. There's been an accident," said Lowrie faintly and
huskily. "Get Riley Sinclair; quick. I got something to say to him."

Riley Sinclair rode over the mountain. An hour of stern climbing lay
behind him, but it was not sympathy for his tired horse that made him
draw rein. Sympathy was not readily on tap in Riley's nature.
"Hossflesh" to Riley was purely and simply a means to an end. Neither
had he paused to enjoy that mystery of change which comes over
mountains between late afternoon and early evening. His keen eyes
answered all his purposes, and that they had never learned to see blue
in shadows meant nothing to Riley Sinclair.

If he looked kindly upon the foothills, which stepped down from the
peaks to the valley lands, it was because they meant an easy descent.
Riley took thorough stock of his surroundings, for it was a new
country. Yonder, where the slant sun glanced and blinked on windows,
must be Sour Creek; and there was the road to town jagging across the
hills. Riley sighed.

In his heart he despised that valley. There were black patches of
plowed land. A scattering of houses began in the foothills and
thickened toward Sour Creek. How could men remain there, where there
was so little elbow room? He scowled down into the shadow of the
valley. Small country, small men.