Читать книгу The Whispering Outlaw - Макс Брэнд - Страница 7

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Borgen had not known that he was a man so esteemed among the brethren who lived outside of the law, but everywhere he went he and his plan were well received; from Champion, that agile little black-eyed ferret of a man, famous for a hundred robberies, to big, lumbering Anson, celebrated for the killing of the great "Kid" Jennings, all the men who were listed to him by the nameless fellow in the night listened to his plan with the keenest interest, and, without an exception, they subscribed their strength.

Doran summed up their opinion: "This here is what we been needing. It's an age of combinations, ain't it? There's corporations for everything. And here we start up our corporation, too. Who in the devil can this gent be? Maybe it's old Thomas? By the heavens, I'll bet it's him. He was turned loose from prison about three months back!"

Every one of the elected, in fact, had an opinion as to the identity of the stranger, but Lew Borgen was past guessing. He hardly cared, for as he progressed from place to place, a new and greater thought had come to him. Suppose that he were to make this nameless progenitor of the scheme stay outside of the workings of the plan? Suppose that he, Lew Borgen, were to constitute himself the unseen director of crime and be the lieutenant to himself? For one thing, he would be then the recipient of five shares—two for himself and three for the man who did not exist. In order to carry on his scheme safely, he had only, it seemed, to shoot down the originator of the scheme at their second meeting. In that fashion he would himself become the fountain head of the work. There would be the great advantage that while so much glory would go to the phantom, all the blame would also go to the invisible idea of a man who no longer existed, and Lew Borgen, as the mere transmitter of orders, could not be attacked for the failures.

The more he contemplated that position, the more ideal it seemed to him, and when at length he approached the scene of the rendezvous, his mind was fully determined. He waited among the neighboring hills until the darkness had fallen thick and black across the sky. Then he left his horse behind him—that same wiry little goat of a horse which had turned out to be worth all the praise which "The Whisperer" had bestowed upon it—and started forward on foot, after stripping off his riding boots and drawing upon his feet soft and soundless moccasins. It would go hard indeed if, so equipped, he could not steal upon his man unseen and unheard. To guide his approach, there flared the camp fire of The Whisperer upon the hilltop!

What a fool yonder schemer was, for all of his brains!

"That," said Lew Borgen to himself, "is the trouble with all these here brainy gents. They can do a pile of thinking, but that lets 'em out. They ain't no good at working out the details. Me, I'm different!"

Borgen saw himself already rich. Within a year of this systematic plunder, he would be able to retire with his gains to some far-off quiet place.

He went onward, crouched low, the revolver ready in his right hand, sometimes steadying himself with his left hand against the boulders over which he was passing. Now and again he paused to study the fire in front of him. There were a number of wavering shadows around it, some of them were rocks, and one must come from the form of the man of the night.

"Steady, Borgen," said a terrible and familiar murmur behind him. "Steady, man. If you turn, I shoot."

Borgen straightened himself by jerks until he was erect. His blood was racing, and yet he was cold from head to foot. In the same jerky fashion he began to realize what he had done—how he had repaid the generous kindness of his benefactor with an attempted treason—a most foul murder! He waited for his death. He wanted to whirl and attempt to fight it out, but the steadiness of that soft voice had made it impossible for him to stir, it seemed. He was chained to the spot.

"Stranger," he started to say in a husky voice.

"Be quiet, Borgen," said The Whisperer. "I understand. This is what I expected. This is what I wanted you to do. Do you think I'd have any value or any respect for you, if you'd just gone blindly ahead doing what I told you to do? You'd of been a fool, then, not a man. Them that think—them that keep trying to improve themselves and their chances—them are the kind of men that I want around me. The way you laid in them moccasins—that showed foresight, Borgen. I sure admired to see that!"

Borgen dropped his gun to the ground and then turned halfway around; finally he turned again and faced The Whisperer for the first time.

"It's all right," said the latter. "I don't aim to be seen by many folks, but you and me are going to meet a thousand times, and here's where you might as well begin to get used to me."

Borgen grunted. He had not yet made out what was in store for him; but he was certain that he was being tantalized with a cruel irony, and that in the end the pellet of lead must crash through his brain. In the meantime, he stared until his eyes ached at the figure before him. He saw a man not more than middle height, with shoulders so exceptionally wide that he seemed rather short. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, his face was a black shadow of a mask, and for the rest, there was nothing to distinguish him from a hundred other cow-punchers. He was not Thomas, that was certain; neither was he half a dozen of the other guesses which had been made about his identity.

"Light a cigarette," said The Whisperer. "Then we can start in and talk free and easy."

He added: "But first pick up your gun and slide it into the holster. Only—after it's in there, don't disturb it none, Borgen!"

Borgen obeyed. He noted with a grim amazement that the man before him had sheathed his own weapon and did not bother to draw it again while Borgen raised his own. But the hand of The Whisperer hung close to the butt of his Colt, and it seemed to Borgen that there was power in that dangling hand to strike him with a thunderbolt. Slowly, slowly he raised his gun; and at last he pushed it harmlessly home in the holster just as he had been ordered. In that brief instant he had accepted the superiority of The Whisperer forever, and it had become impossible for him to strike in his own behalf. He was subdued utterly.

He rolled his smoke, and The Whisperer did the same, with such adroitness that he had scratched his match before the other had completed his manufacture. Lew Borgen began to study his chief by the light of the match. It burned blue till the sulphur was gone, then the clear yellow flame sprang out and showed The Whisperer with dazzling clearness against the velvet black of the night. He seemed even broader of shoulders, more wedgelike in build than he had been in the dark. His hands were slender. His face was completely hidden behind the black mask. But between the side of the mask and the crown of his hat there was a curl or two exposed, of brilliant red hair.

The heart of Lew Borgen leaped. It was "Red" Murray, then! No, he decided an instant later, it could not be the celebrated Red. That worthy was a full two inches taller than The Whisperer. Neither was Red capable of a scheme of such fine proportions. Neither would he have been able to read another man's mind as The Whisperer had truly read the mind of Lew.

"It worked out like a charm," said The Whisperer in that same voice, which was indeed not a whisper at all, but a barely audible enunciation. It was hardly as penetrating as a whisper; it lacked the sibilant sharpness of the latter, which carries far, even though the words are not audible.

"It worked out like a charm, Lew. You got them all in line, I see."

"How the devil do you know that?" blurted out Lew, stung into speech by his impatience. For such omniscience was like a weight upon his soul.

"Why," explained the leader, "that ain't hard to make out. There's nothing spooky about me, Lew. I knew my scheme had worked out, because otherwise, you wouldn't of come back to murder me on account of it. When I seen you sneaking up the hillside, I knowed right off that you was paying me a mighty big compliment without being right sure of it yourself!"

The other shrugged his shoulders. This explanation had at first seemed to simplify matters a great deal and to explain everything, but the more he pondered upon it the more worthy of thought it seemed to him. Such cleverness was even more than mysterious—it was a terrible thing.

"You was watching for me to come at you—from behind?" he growled out, forcing out the words of his shame.

"Oh, I knowed where you'd come," said the other calmly. "They ain't no doubt that a gent has to try to improve himself when he gets a chance, and here was a chance for you to get rich quick. With the cream of the plunder rolling in, and you getting five shares out of eighteen or twenty"

Lew Borgen was crushed to the very ground; this seemed to give proof that the other had actually the power to step into the minds of others. For had that not been the very inner thought of Lew when he planned the assassination of his chief?

"What name do I call you by?" he asked suddenly.

"Whatever you want. I'd rather stay without a name."

"Well, then, d'you mean to say that you still want me—after all of this— to stay on as your—lieutenant?"

"Of course," said The Whisperer. "Look here, Borgen, ain't it better the way it is? Now you know a little more about me than you used to. If I took another gent, I'd have to go through all of this again. It'd take time, and it'd be trouble. I hate work, Borgen. I sure hate laboring!"

Borgen drew a long, slow breath. He began to feel that he had entered the service of the devil indeed; and he would just as soon have attacked Satan in person as to have raised a hand, after that instant, against The Whisperer. Yet, when he tried to explain it to himself, he had to admit that the latter had neither drawn a gun, fired a shot to demonstrate his skill, nor even raised his voice with threats. It was odd, indeed. But Borgen felt as though he had come from facing cannon when he left The Whisperer that night.