Max Brand (23 page)

He made a significant, short gesture, as if he were snapping a whip,
and a snarl of undying malice curled his lips.

"As long as you live, Sinclair," he added. "As long as you live, I'll
remember."

Even the sheriff shuddered at that glimpse into the black soul of a
man; Sinclair alone was unmoved.

"I reckon you've barked enough, Arizona," he suggested. "S'pose you
trot along. I got to have words with my friend, the sheriff."

Arizona waved his fat hand. He was recovering his ordinary poise, and
with a smiling good night to the sheriff, he turned away through the
door.

"Nice, friendly sort, eh?" remarked Sinclair the moment he was alone
with Kern.

"I still got the chills," said the sheriff. "Sure has got a wicked pair
of eyes, that Arizona."

Kern cast an apprehensive glance at the closed door, yet, in spite of
the fact that it was closed, he lowered his voice.

"What in thunder have you done to him, Sinclair?"

"About eight years ago—" began Sinclair and then stopped short.

"Let it go," he went on. "No matter what Arizona is today, he's sure
improved on the gent I used to know. What's done is done. Besides, I
made a mistake that time. I went too far with him, and a mistake is
like borrowed money, sheriff. It lays up interest and keeps
compounding. When you have to pay back what you done a long time ago,
you find it's a terrible pile. That's all I got to say about Arizona."

Sheriff Kern nodded. "That's straight talk, Sinclair," he said softly.
"But what was it you wanted to see me about?"

"Cold Feet," said Sinclair.

At once the sheriff brightened. "That's right," he said hurriedly. "You
got the right idea now, partner. Glad to see you're using hoss sense.
And if you gimme an idea of the trail that'll lead to Cold Feet, I can
see to it that you get out of this mess pretty pronto. After all, you
ain't done no real harm except for nicking Cartwright in the arm, and I
figure that he needs a little punishment. It'll cool his temper down."

"You think I ought to tell you where Cold Feet is?" asked Sinclair
without emotion.

"Why not?"

"Him and me sat around the same campfire, sheriff, and ate off'n the
same deer."

At this the sheriff winced. "I know," he murmured. "It's hard—mighty
hard!" He continued more smoothly: "But listen to me, partner. There's
twenty-five-hundred dollars on the head of Cold Feet. Why not come in?
Why not split on it? Plenty for both of us; and, speaking personal, I
could use half that money, and maybe you could use the other half just
as well!"

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Sinclair, "I'll give you the layout
for finding Cold Feet. Ride west out of Sour Creek and head for a
flat-topped mountain. On the shoulder just under the head of the peak
you'll find Cold Feet. Go get him!"

The sheriff caught his breath, then whirled on his heel. The sharp
voice of Sinclair called him back.

"Wait a minute. I ain't through. When you catch Cold Feet you go after
him without guns."

"How come?"

"Because you might hurt him, and he can't fight, sheriff. Even if he
was to pull a gun, he couldn't hit nothing with it. He couldn't hit the
ground he's standing on with a gun."

Sheriff Kern scratched his head.

"And when you get him," went on Sinclair, "tell him to go back and take
up his life where he left off, because they's no harm coming to him."

"Great guns, man! No harm coming to him with a murder to his count and
a price on his head?"

"I mean what I say. Break it to him real gentle."

"And who pays for the killing of Quade?"

Sinclair smiled. He was finding it far easier to do it than he had ever
imagined. The moment he made the resolve, his way was smoothed for him.

"I pay for Quade," he said quietly.

"What d'you mean?"

"Because I killed him, sheriff. Now go tell Cold Feet that his score is
clean!"

Toward the flat-topped mountain, with the feeling of his fate upon him,
Bill Sandersen pushed his mustang through the late evening, while the
darkness fell. He had long since stopped thinking, reasoning. There was
only the strong, blind feeling that he must meet Sinclair face to face
and decide his destiny in one brief struggle.

So he kept on until his shadow fell faintly on his path before him,
long, shapeless, grotesque. He turned and saw the moon coming up above
the eastern mountains, a wan, sickly moon hardly out of her first
quarter, and even in the pure mountain air her light was dim.

But it gave thought and pause to Sandersen. First there was the
outcropping of a singular superstition which he had heard long before
and never remembered until this moment: that a moon seen over the left
shoulder meant the worst of bad luck. It boded very ill for the end of
this adventure.

Suppose he were able only partially to surprise the big cowpuncher from
the north, and that there was a call for fighting. What chance would he
have in the dim and bewildering light of that moon against the surety
of Sinclair who shot, he knew, as other men point the finger
—instinctively hitting the target? It would be a mere butchery,
not a battle.

Sending his mustang into a copse of young trees, he dismounted. His
mind was made up not to attempt the blow until the first light of dawn.
He would try to reach the top of the flat-crested mountain well before
sunup, when there would be a real light instead of this ghostly and
partial illumination from the moon.

Among the trees he sat down and took up the dreadful watches of the
night. Sleep never came near him. He was turning the back pages of his
memory, reviewing his past with the singular clearness of a man about
to die. For Sandersen had this mortal certainty resting upon his mind
that he must try to strike down Sinclair, and that he would fail. And
failure meant only one alternative—death. He was perfectly confident
that this was the truth. He knew with prophetic surety that he would
never again see the kind light of the sun, that in a half-light, in the
cold of the dawn, a bullet would end his life.

What he saw in the past was not comforting. A long train of vivid
memories came up in his mind. He had accomplished nothing. In the total
course of his life he had not made a man his friend, or won the love of
a woman. In all his attempts to succeed in life there had been nothing
but disastrous failures, and wherever he moved he involved others in
his fall. Certainly the prospecting trip with the three other men had
been worse than all the rest, but it had been typical. It had been he
who first suggested the trip, and he had rounded the party together and
sustained it with enthusiasm.

It had been he who led it into the mountains and across the desert. And
on the terrible return trip he knew, with an abiding sense of guilt,
that he alone could have checked the murderous and cowardly impulse of
Quade. He alone could have overruled Quade and Lowrie; or, failing to
overrule them he should at least have stayed with the cripple and
helped him on, with the chance of death for them both.

When he thought of that noble opportunity lost, he writhed. It would
have gained the deathless affection of Hal Sinclair and saved that
young, strong life. It would have won him more. It would have made
Riley Sinclair his ally so long as he lived. And how easy to have done
it, he thought, looking back.

Instead, he had given way; and already the result had been the death of
three men. The tale was not yet told, he was sure. Another death was
due. A curse lay on that entire party, and it would not be ended until
he, Sandersen, the soul of the enterprise, fell.

The moon grew old in the west. Then he took the saddle again and rode,
brooding, up the trail, his horse stumbling over the stones as the
animal grew wearier in the climb.

And then, keeping his gaze fastened above him, he saw the outline of
the crests grow more and more distinct. He looked behind. In the east
the light was growing. The whole horizon was rimmed with a pale glow.

Now his spirits rose. Even this gray dawn was far better than the
treacherous moonlight. A daylight calm came over him. He was stronger,
surer of himself. Impatiently he drew out his Colt and looked to its
action. The familiar weight added to his self-belief. It became
possible for him to fight, and being possible to fight, it was also
possible to conquer.

Presently he reached a bald upland. The fresh wind of the morning
struck his face, and he breathed deep of it. Why could he not return to
Sour Creek as a hero, and why could he not collect the price on the
head of Riley Sinclair?

The thought made him alert, savage. A moment later, his head pushing up
to the level of the shoulder of the mountain, he saw his quarry. In the
dimness of that early dawn he made out the form of a sleeper huddled in
blankets, but it was enough. That must be Riley Sinclair. It could not
be another, and all his premonitions were correct.

Suddenly he became aware that he could not fail. It was impossible! As
gloomy as he had been before, his spirits now leaped to the heights. He
swung down from the saddle, softly, slowly, and went up the hill
without once drawing his eyes from that motionless form in the
blankets.

Once something stirred to the right and far below him. He flashed a
glance in that direction and saw that it was a hobbled horse, though
not the horse of Sinclair; but that mattered nothing. The second horse
might be among the trees.

Easing his step and tightening the grip on his revolver, he drew
closer. Should he shoot without warning? No, he would lean over the
sleeper, call his name, and let him waken and see his death before it
came to him. Otherwise the triumph would be robbed of half of its
sweetness.

Now he had come sufficiently near to make out distinctly that there was
only one sleeper. Had Sinclair and Cold Feet separated? If so, this
must be Sinclair. The latter might have the boldness to linger so close
to danger, but certainly never Cold Feet, even if he had once worked
his courage to the point of killing a man. He stepped closer, leaned,
and then by the half-light made out the pale, delicate features of the
schoolteacher.

For the moment Sandersen was stunned with disappointment, and yet his
spirits rose again almost at once. If Sinclair had fled, all the
better. He would not return, at least for a long time, and in the
meantime, he, Sandersen, would collect the money on the head of Cold
Feet!

With the Colt close to the breast of Jig, he said: "Wake up, Cold
Feet!"

The girl opened her eyes, struggled to sit up, and was thrust back by
the muzzle of the gun, held with rocklike firmness in the hand of
Sandersen.

"Riley—what—" she muttered sleepily and then she made out the face of
Sandersen distinctly.

Instantly she was wide awake, whiter than ever, staring. Better to take
the desperado alive than dead—far better. Cold Feet would make a show
in Sour Creek for the glorification of Sandersen, as he rode down
through the main street, and the men would come out to see the prize
which even Sheriff Kern and his posse had not yet been able to take.

"Roll over on your face."

Cold Feet obeyed without a murmur. There was a coiled rope by the
cinders of the fire. Sandersen cut off a convenient length and bound
the slender wrists behind the back of the schoolteacher. Then he jerked
his quarry to a sitting posture.

"Where's Sinclair gone?"

To his astonishment, Cold Feet's face brightened wonderfully.

"Oh, then you haven't found him? You haven't found him? Thank
goodness!"

Sandersen studied the schoolteacher closely. It was impossible to
mistake the frankness of the latter's face.

"By guns," he said at last, "I see it all now. The skunk sneaked off in
the middle of the night and left you alone here to face the music?"

Jig flushed, as she exclaimed: "That's not true. He's never run away in
his life."

"Maybe not," muttered Sandersen apprehensively. "Maybe he'll come back
ag'in. Maybe he's just rode off after something and will be back."

At once the old fear swept over him. His apprehensive glance flickered
over the rocks and trees around him—a thousand secure hiding places.
He faced the schoolteacher again.

"Look here, Jig: You're charged with a murder, you see? I can take you
dead or alive; and the shot that bumped you off might bring Sinclair
running to find out what'd happened, and he'd go the same way. But will
you promise to keep your mouth shut and give no warning when Sinclair
heaves in sight? Take your pick. It don't make no difference to me, one
way or the other; but I can't have the two of you on my hands."

To his surprise Jig did not answer at once.

"Ain't I made myself clear? Speak out!"

"I won't promise," said Cold Feet, raising the colorless face.

"Then, by thunder, I'll—"

In the sudden contorting of his face she saw her death, but as she
closed her eyes and waited for the report and the tear of the bullet,
she heard him muttering: "No, they's a better way."

A moment later her mouth was wrenched open, and a huge wadded bandanna
was stuffed into it. Sandersen pushed her back to the ground and tossed
the blanket over her again.

"You ain't much of a man, Jig, but as a bait for my trap you'll do
tolerable well. You're right: Sinclair's coming back, and when he
comes, I'll be waiting for him out of sight behind the rock. But listen
to this, Jig. If you wrastle around and try to get that gag out of your
mouth, I ain't going to take no chances. Whether Sinclair's in sight or
not, I'm going to drill you clean. Now lie still and keep thinking on
what I told you. I mean it all!"

With a final scowl he left her and hurried to the rock. It made an
ideal shelter for his purposes. On three sides, the rock made a thick
and effectual parapet. A thousand bullets might splash harmlessly
against that stone; and through crevices he commanded the whole sweep
of the mountainside beneath them. The courage which had been growing in
Sandersen, now reached a climax. Below him lay the helpless body of one
prize—from a distance apparently a sound and quiet sleeper, though
Sandersen could see the terrified glint of Jig's eyes.