The Max Brand Megapack (75 page)

And then that hand, warm and wet with the thing whose taste set the wolf’s heart on fire with the lust to kill, was thrust against his nose. He leaped back with bared teeth, growling horribly. The eyes commanded him back, commanded him relentlessly. He howled dismally to the senseless stars, yet he came; and once more that hand was thrust against his nose. He licked the fingers.

That blood-lust came hotter than before, but his fear was greater. He licked the strange hand again, whining. Then the master kneeled. Another hand, clean, and free from that horrible warm, wet sign of death, fell upon his shaggy back. The voice which he knew of old came to him, blew away the red mist from his soul, comforted him.

“Poor Bart!” said the voice, and the hand went slowly over his head. “It weren’t your fault.”

The stallion whinnied softly. A deep growl formed in the throat of the wolf, a mighty effort at speech. And now, like a gleam of light in a dark room, Dan remembered the house of Buck Daniels. There, at least, they could not refuse him aid. He drew on his coat, though the effort set him sweating with agony, got his foot in the stirrup with difficulty, and dragged himself to the saddle. Satan started at a swift gallop.

“Faster, Satan! Faster, partner!”

What a response! The strong body settled a little closer to the earth as the stride increased. The rhythm of the pace grew quicker, smoother. There was no adequate phrase to describe the matchless motion. And in front—always just a little in front with the plunging forefeet of the horse seeming to threaten him at every stride, ran Black Bart with his head turned as if he were the guard and guide of the fugitive.

Dan called and Black Bart yelped in answer. Satan tossed up his head and neighed as he raced along. The two replies were like human assurances that there was still a fighting chance.

The steady loss of blood was telling rapidly now. He clutched the pommel, set his teeth, and felt oblivion settle slowly and surely upon him. As his senses left him he noted the black outlines of the next high range of hills, a full ten miles away.

He only knew the pace of Satan never slackened. There seemed no effort in it. He was like one of those fabled horses, the offspring of the wind, and like the wind, tireless, eternal of motion.

A longer oblivion fell upon Dan. As he roused from it he found himself slipping in the saddle. He struggled desperately to grasp the saddlehorn and managed to draw himself up again; but the warning was sufficient to make him hunt about for some means of making himself more secure in the saddle. It was a difficult task to do anything with only one hand, but he managed to tie his left arm to the bucking-strap. If the end came, at least he was sure to die in the saddle. Vaguely he was aware as he looked around that the black hills were no longer in the distance. He was among them.

On went Satan. His breath was coming more and more laboured. It seemed to Dan’s dim consciousness that some of the spring was gone from that glorious stride which swept on and on with the slightest undulation, like a swallow skimming before the wind; but so long as strength remained he knew that Satan would never falter in his pace. As the delirium swept once more shadow-like on his brain, he allowed himself to fall forward, and wound his fingers as closely as possible in the thick mane. His left arm jerked horribly against the bonds. Black night swallowed him once more.

Only his invincible heart kept Satan going throughout that last stretch. His ears lay flat on his neck, lifting only when the master muttered and raved in his fever. Foam flew back against his throat and breast. His breath came shorter, harder, with a rasp; but the gibbering voice of his rider urged him on, faster, and faster. They topped a small hill, and a little to the left and a mile away, rose a group of cottonwoods, and Dan, recovering consciousness, knew the house of Buck. He also knew that his last moment of consciousness was come. Surges of sleepy weakness swept over his brain. He could never guide Satan to the house.

“Bart!” he called feebly.

The wolf whining, dropped back beside him. Dan pointed his right arm straight ahead. Black Bart leaped high into the air and his shrill yelp told that he had seen the cottonwoods and the house.

Dan summoned the last of his power and threw the reins over the head of Satan.

“Take us in, Bart,” he said, and twisting his fingers into Satan’s mane fell across the saddlehorn.

Satan, understanding the throwing of the reins as an order to halt, came to a sharp stop, and the body of the senseless rider sagged to one side. Black Bart caught the reins. They were bitter and salt with blood of the master.

He tugged hard. Satan whinnied his doubt, and the growl of Black Bart answered, half a threat. In a moment more they were picking their way through the brush towards the house of Buck Daniels.

Satan was far gone with exhaustion. His head drooped; his legs sprawled with every step; his eyes were glazed. Yet he staggered on with the great black wolf pulling at the reins. There was the salt taste of blood in the mouth of Black Bart; so he stalked on, saliva dripping from his mouth, and his eyes glazed with the lust to kill. His furious snarling was the threat which urged on the stallion.

CHAPTER XXVI

BLACK BART TURNS NURSE

It was old Mrs. Daniels who woke first at the sound of scratching and growling. She roused her husband and son, and all three went to the door, Buck in the lead with his six-gun in his hand. At sight of the wolf he started back and raised the gun, but Black Bart fawned about his feet.

“Don’t shoot—it’s a dog, an’ there’s his master!” cried Sam. “By the Lord, they’s a dead man tied on that there hoss!”

Dan lay on Satan, half fallen from the saddle, with his head hanging far down, only sustained by the strength of the rein. The stallion, wholly spent, stood with his legs braced, his head low, and his breath coming in great gasps. The family ran to the rescue. Sam cut the rein and Buck lowered the limp body in his arms.

“Buck, is he dead?” whispered Mrs. Daniels.

“I don’t feel no heart beat,” said Buck. “Help me fetch him into the house, Dad!”

“Look out for the hoss!” cried Sam.

Buck started back with his burden just in time, for Satan, surrendering to his exhaustion, pitched to the ground, and lay with sprawling legs like a spent dog rather than a horse.

“Let the hoss be,” said Buck. “Help me with the man. He’s hurt bad.”

Mrs. Daniels ran ahead and lighted a lamp. They laid the body carefully upon a bed. It made a ghastly sight, the bloodless face with the black hair fallen wildly across the forehead, the mouth loosely open, and the lips black with dust.

“Dad!” said Buck. “I think I’ve seen this feller. God knows if he’s livin’ or dead.”

He dropped to his knees and pressed his ear over Dan’s heart.

“I can’t feel no motion. Ma, get that hand mirror—”

She had it already and now held it close to the lips of the wounded man. When she drew it away their three heads drew close together.

“They’s a mist on it! He’s livin’!” cried Buck.

“It ain’t nothing,” said Sam. “The glass ain’t quite clear, that’s all.”

Mrs. Daniels removed the last doubt by running her finger across the surface of the glass. It left an unmistakable mark.

They wasted no moment then. They brought hot and cold water, washed out his wound, cleansed away the blood; and while Mrs. Daniels and her husband fixed the bandage, Buck pounded and rubbed the limp body to restore the circulation. In a few minutes his efforts were rewarded by a great sigh from Dan.

He shouted in triumph, and then: “By God, it’s Whistlin’ Dan Barry.”

“It is!” said Sam. “Buck, they’s been devils workin’ tonight. It sure took more’n one man to nail him this way.”

They fell to work frantically. There was a perceptible pulse, the breathing was faint but steady, and a touch of colour came in the face.

“His arm will be all right in a few days,” said Mrs. Daniels, “but he may fall into a fever. He’s turnin’ his head from side to side and talkin’. What’s he sayin’, Buck?”

“He’s sayin’: ‘Faster, Satan.’”

“That’s the hoss,” interpreted Sam.

“‘Hold us straight, Bart!’ That’s what he’s sayin’ now.”

“That’s the wolf.”

“‘An’ it’s all for Delilah!’ Who’s Delilah, Dad?”

“Maybe it’s some feller Dan knows.”

“Some feller?” repeated Mrs. Daniels with scorn. “It’s some worthless girl who got Whistlin’ Dan into this trouble.”

Dan’s eyes opened but there was no understanding in them.

“Haines, I hate you worse’n hell!”

“It’s Lee Haines who done this!” cried Sam.

“If it is, I’ll cut out his heart!”

“It can’t be Haines,” broke in Mrs. Daniels. “Old man Perkins, didn’t he tell us that Haines was the man that Whistlin’ Dan Barry had brought down into Elkhead? How could Haines do this shootin’ while he was in jail?”

“Ma,” said Sam, “you watch Whistlin’ Dan. Buck an’ me’ll take care of the hoss—that black stallion. He’s pretty near all gone, but he’s worth savin’. What I don’t see is how he found his way to us. It’s certain Dan didn’t guide him all the way.”

“How does the wind find its way?” said Buck. “It was the wolf that brought Dan here, but standin’ here talkin’ won’t tell us how. Let’s go out an’ fix up Satan.”

It was by no means an easy task. As they approached the horse he heaved himself up, snorting, and stood with legs braced, and pendant head. Even his eyes were glazed with exhaustion, but behind them it was easy to guess the dauntless anger which raged against these intruders. Yet he would have been helpless against them. It was Black Bart who interfered at this point. He stood before them, his hair bristling and his teeth bared.

Sam suggested: “Leave the door of the house open an’ let him hear Whistlin’ Dan’s voice.”

It was done. At once the delirious voice of Dan stole out to them faintly. The wolf turned his head to Satan with a plaintive whine, as if asking why the stallion remained there when that voice was audible. Then he raced for the open door and disappeared into the house.

“Hurry in, Buck!” called Sam. “Maybe the wolf’ll scare Ma!”

They ran inside and found Black Bart on the bed straddling the body of Whistling Dan, and growling at poor Mrs. Daniels, who crouched in a corner of the room. It required patient work before he was convinced that they actually meant no harm to his master.

“What’s the reason of it?” queried Sam helplessly. “The damn wolf let us take Dan off the hoss without makin’ any fuss.”

“Sure he did,” assented Buck, “but he ain’t sure of me yet, an’ every time he comes near me he sends the cold chills up my back.”

Having decided that he might safely trust them to touch Dan’s body, the great wolf went the round and sniffed them carefully, his hair bristling and the forbidding growl lingering in his throat. In the end he apparently decided that they might be tolerated, though he must keep an eye upon their actions. So he sat down beside the bed and followed with an anxious eye every movement of Mrs. Daniels. The men went back to the stallion. He still stood with legs braced far apart, and head hanging low. Another mile of that long race and he would have dropped dead beneath his rider.

Nevertheless at the coming of the strangers he reared up his head a little and tried to run away. Buck caught the dangling reins near the bit. Satan attempted to strike out with his forehoof. It was a movement as clumsy and slow as the blow of a child, and Buck easily avoided it. Realizing his helplessness Satan whinnied a heart-breaking appeal for help to his unfailing friend, Black Bart. The wail of the wolf answered dolefully from the house.

“Good Lord,” groaned Buck. “Now we’ll have that black devil on our hands again.”

“No, we won’t,” chuckled Sam, “the wolf won’t leave Dan. Come on along, old hoss.”

Nevertheless it required hard labour to urge and drag the stallion to the stable. At the end of that time they had the saddle off and a manger full of fodder before him. They went back to the house with the impression of having done a day’s work.

“Which it shows the fool nature of a hoss,” moralized Sam. “That stallion would be willin’ to lay right down and die for the man that’s jest rode him up to the front door of death, but he wishes everlastingly that he had the strength to kick the daylight out of you an’ me that’s been tryin’ to take care of him. You jest write this down inside your brain, Buck: a hoss is like a woman. They jest nacherally ain’t no reason in ’em!”

They found Dan in a heavy sleep, his breath coming irregularly. Mrs. Daniels stated that it was the fever which she had feared and she offered to sit up with the sick man through the rest of that night. Buck lifted her from the chair and took her place beside the bed.

“No one but me is goin’ to take care of Whistlin’ Dan,” he stated.

So the vigil began, with Buck watching Dan, and Black Bart alert, suspicious, ready at the first wrong move to leap at the throat of Buck.

CHAPTER XXVII

NOBODY LAUGHS

That night the power which had sent Dan into Elkhead, Jim Silent, stood his turn at watch in the narrow canyon below the old Salton place. In the house above him sat Terry Jordan, Rhinehart, and Hal Purvis playing poker, while Bill Kilduff drew a drowsy series of airs from his mouth-organ. His music was getting on the nerves of the other three, particularly Jordan and Rhinehart, for Purvis was winning steadily.

“Let up!” broke out Jordan at last, pounding on the table with his fist. “Your damn tunes are gettin’ my goat. Nobody can think while you’re hittin’ it up like that. This ain’t no prayer meetin’, Bill.”

For answer Kilduff removed the mouth-organ to take a deep breath, blinked his small eyes, and began again in a still higher key.

“Go slow, Terry,” advised Rhinehart in a soft tone. “Kilduff ain’t feelin’ none too well tonight.”

“What’s the matter with him?” growled the scar-faced man, none too anxious to start an open quarrel with the formidable Kilduff.

Rhinehart jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“The gal in there. He don’t like the game the chief has been workin’ with her.”

“Neither do I,” said Purvis, “but I’d do worse than the chief done to get Lee Haines back.”