Читать книгу The Stolen Stallion - Max Brand - Страница 4

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The plans which the rancher and the half-breed laid by moonlight were perfectly definite and simple. Lake was to come the following night, after Richmond had scraped together some money to cover expenses on the trip to the East. The half-breed was to steal Brandy and make for the railroad, not at the town of Parmalee, close at hand, but far to the north. On the road he could ship Brandy to the East, and inside of three weeks the big horse might be appearing on the tracks. It was a scheme that promised the greater success because the crime in which they shared would force them to a mutual honesty in their own dealings.

But next morning a message came. A messenger rode out from Parmalee with a brief letter from Lake to Richmond. The rancher read:

Dear Richmond: The game is off for a while. I've had a glimpse of Charlie Moore in town, and he was drinking with Silvertip. Why didn't you tell me that Silver was Moore's friend? Silvertip would as soon take a shot at me as at a mountain grouse. I'm laying low till he leaves this part of the range.

Lake.

The name of Silvertip was unknown to Harry Richmond. He burned the letter and went in search of information. Since the punchers were out on the range, he went into the kitchen with his questions; the cook stopped peeling potatoes while he answered.

"I never seen Silvertip no more'n I ever seen wire gold," said the "doctor," as the cook was sometimes called, "But I've heard gents talk about him, here and there. He gets his name from a coupla streaks of gray hair over his temples, but he ain't old. He ain't thirty. He's ripped the top ground off a fortune twenty times, but he never stops long enough to dig out the pay dirt, because he's always in a hurry. Trouble is what he hunts for breakfast, kills it for lunch, and eats it for supper."

"What kind of trouble?" asked Harry Richmond, gnawing his fleshy lip.

"Any kind," said the cook. "A hoss that pitches right smart is his kind of a hoss; a forest on fire is his kind of a forest; a gold-rush town is his kind of a town; and a two-gun fightin' man is his kind of a man."

"They ought to outlaw that kind of a hound," said the rancher angrily.

"No," said the cook. "He ain't any trouble to a sheriff; he's more of a help. Coupla years back, down in Brown's Creek, when the gold rush come and half the yeggs in the country flocked in, the regular, honest miners, they got together and they sent an invitation to Silvertip to go and settle down with them for a while. And he went. And that was a loud town, Richmond. That was a town that you could hear all the way across the mountains. But after Silvertip was there a week, he soothed it down such a lot that you couldn't hear a whisper out of it."

"He killed the bad actors, you mean?" asked Richmond.

"I dunno that he killed any. I hear that mostly he can shoot so straight that he don't have to kill; and when he comes in one door, the yeggs go out the other."

Richmond went off to digest this news, agreeing in his mind to despise Lake less than when the half-breed's letter had arrived. The rattling wheels of an approaching buckboard brought him out of the house, and he saw Charlie Moore drive up with a big stranger on the seat beside him. The stranger's mount, a big bay gelding with chasings of silver aflash on it, jogged behind the rig, which was loaded with the supplies which Moore had been sent to buy the evening before. It was the simplest way of getting him off the place while Lake arrived to test the stallion.

Charlie Moore drew up near the kitchen door and climbed to the ground; his big companion glided down with one step, as though from a saddle.

"Meet Silvertip, Mr. Richmond—Harry Richmond," said Charlie Moore. He smiled with pride to be presenting such a famous man.

Harry Richmond stepped forward with a grunt and a grin, but the manners of Silvertip were rather more Latin than American. He took off his hat and bowed a little to the rancher, as he shook hands. Richmond saw, above the temples, the spots of gray, and an odd chill passed through him.

It was a brown face that he looked into, and the expression was full of such gentle peace as the rancher had never seen before. It was the look of one who daydreams, with the faintest of smiles continually about the lips. Never was a face more handsome, more honest, more open; and yet the chill was still working in the spinal marrow of Richmond. Brandy, and all the fortune that could be made out of the great horse, was as good as his own, until the arrival of Silvertip. Now he felt that good fortune had withdrawn many miles from him.

They began to unload the buckboard together. The flour sacks, the sides of bacon, the hams, were easily handled. But when it came to the big two-hundred-pound sacks of potatoes, which Richmond and old Charlie Moore struggled with together, Silver picked them up by the ears and carried the burden easily into the storeroom.

"He's strong," said the rancher.

"Aye," said Charlie Moore, wagging his head in admiration. "He's mighty strong. He's too strong. A gent like that is too strong to work."

There was a meaning behind this remark which Harry Richmond appreciated to the full, and he looked suddenly and sharply at Moore, as though wondering how far that simple-minded fellow could have looked into a man like Silvertip. But there was nothing to be seen in the face of Moore other than his usual expression, which was that of a child half dreaming over the world and half hurt by it.

Moore looked much younger than his fifty-five years, except for the pain which had worked in the lines about the mouth and in the center of the forehead. But his hair was still dark, and his eyes were still bright. His clothes were those of any hard-working cowpuncher, except that his boots were common cowhide—and where does one find a self-respecting cowpuncher, who is without meticulous pride in his footwear? But there was no pride in Charlie Moore. He had gone all his life quite content if he could avoid trouble and understand the need of the moment, and the commands which were given to him. He was not, like Silvertip, "a gent too strong to work!"

To be sure, Silvertip was walking by again with the weight of another sack trundled comfortably in his arms. As he passed, Harry Richmond looked askance and saw the great spring of muscles that arched from shoulder to shoulder, the corseting of might which gripped him about the loins and swelled his torso above hips as lean as those of a desert wolf that can run all day and fight all night. That was what Silvertip seemed to Harry Richmond—a machine too flawless to be used on the mere mechanics of ranch work.

"Silvertip, he's an old friend of mine," said Charlie Moore, dusting the white of flour from his coat sleeves, as the unloading of the wagon was finished. "I guess," he added, with a sudden wistfulness, "that Silver's about the best friend that I got!" He blundered on: "Which ain't meanin' that Silvertip takes me very serious. Nobody does. But I guess he means more to me than anybody else."

Harry Richmond, watching very closely, saw the smile struck from the mouth of Silvertip; but at the same instant the hand of Silver went out and rested for a moment on the shoulder of Moore. The latter seemed to accept that touch as an assurance of all that he could have wished. He brightened; with an air of surprised happiness, he looked up at Silvertip, who avoided that glance by saying to Richmond:

"Charlie tells me that you and he have a great horse out here."

"Pretty fair—pretty fair," answered Richmond. With an air of thought, he pursed his mouth until the tip of his nose was raised, and his fat face was sculptured into a new and amazing design. "Soft—but I'll tell you what he's got, that Brandy. He's got pretty good lines. That's why I could use him with some mustang mares and get me some saddle stock. I'll tell you what, Charlie—I'll buy out your half in Brandy. He ain't much. He's too heavy and soggy, kind of, in the quarters. But I'm tired of this partnership business, and I'll buy him off you. I'll give you a good price for your share, too. Whatcha want, Charlie? Speak up and name your price."

"Sell my half of Brandy?" asked Moore, staring like a round-eyed child. He laughed a little, but the pain remained in his blue eyes. "I could easier sell half of myself," he concluded.

"Now, don't you be a fool," said Richmond. He stepped closer, so that the superiority of his bulk might impress itself on the eye of Moore as the weight of his words impressed itself on the simple mind of the puncher. He laid the tip of a forefinger like a dagger at the breast of his ranch hand. "Who knows more about business, you or me?" he demanded.

"Why, you do, Harry," answered Moore, instantly abashed. "Sure, you know a lot more than I do."

"Then don't be a fool," went on Richmond. "I'm goin' to pay you your own price. I'll pay you up to six months' wages. Not that half of Brandy is worth that much, but just because I wanta get rid of the argument. I hate argument. You know that. I'm goin' to give you a chance to pick up a price of good money, Charlie; I'm goin' to show you that I'm your friend."

For it seemed to Richmond that this was the time to strike, and strike hard, for the prize, before Silvertip laid his wise eye on the stallion and saw Brandy's real value. And Charlie Moore, amazed and baffled and somewhat agape as he listened to the impressive words of Richmond, rolled his eyes from side to side.

The quiet voice of Silvertip broke in: "No man will sell the blood out of his body, Richmond, and that's what Brandy is to Charlie. Let's put up the team and have a look at the horse."

Charlie Moore heaved a sigh of relief; Richmond bit his lip. But by those few words the matter seemed to be settled beyond appeal. If Richmond wanted the stallion, he would, in fact, have to steal him. And he cursed Silvertip with a silent fervor.

They put up the mustangs, ran the buckboard into the wagon shed, and went to the big corral behind the barn, where Brandy was grazing. He could have had his name for his color; he was a golden fire, red-stained and sun-burnished. At the whistle of Moore, he picked up his head from his grazing and turned suddenly about. Black silk covered his legs to the knees and the hocks; black velvet covered his muzzle; and between the eyes there was a white wedge, like the hallmark of the Master Maker.

"Kind of soft all over," said Richmond. "Kind of heavy and soggy in the quarters, ain't he? But sort of good-lookin'; picture-book hoss, that kids would be crazy about. That's all."

But a faint cry had come out of the throat of Silvertip. He was through the bars of the fence and stepping across toward the stallion with hand extended. Charlie Moore made so free as to grasp the arm of Richmond with a frantic hand.

"Look! Look!" said Moore. "It's even the kind of a horse for Silvertip. It's the kind of a horse he wants, and he's never wanted a horse before."

"How come?" asked Richmond angrily. "How come you say he never has wanted a hoss before?"

"Look at what I mean," muttered Charlie, keeping enchanted eyes upon the picture of Silvertip approaching the stallion. "What I mean is that Silver, he never finds nothin' that he really wants. That's why he never stops still. There ain't no girl pretty enough to stop him for a week. There ain't no house right enough to be his home. There ain't no mine rich enough to keep him diggin'. There ain't no man big enough to be his friend. There ain't no horse fine enough for him to make a partner of it. No horse before Brandy, maybe! But look at Silver now! Look at the way he's steppin' around him. Look at him measurin' and measurin' and admirin'—"

"There ain't much in this world that Silvertip's interested in except a fight—is that it?" asked the rancher.

"That and danger," said Charlie Moore absently. "There's danger been put into the world, and there's men been put to love it, I guess. Why, he ain't even satisfied with Brandy—not even with him! Look at Silver shakin' his head a little and shruggin' his shoulders. And here he comes back to us. Hey, Silver!" he called. "Don't you make up your mind till you've tried him. Don't you damn Brandy till you've tried him, will you?"

"Of course I'll try him," said Silvertip. "And he's a grand horse. No wonder you're proud of him, Charlie. He's the finest for his weight that I ever saw. Just for a minute I almost thought—well, no matter about that."

He broke off with a sigh, and his eyes went regretfully back toward the stallion.

"You thought what? You almost thought what?" asked Moore eagerly. "You thought almost that he would be the horse for you, Silver? Ain't that what you almost thought? Try him, Silver, and maybe he is the horse for you. If he is, you can have him. I'll give him up. It'd be better to me than ownin' him to think of you and him out together, like a coupla kings, like a coupla hawks flyin' over the mountains. You try him, and if he is your horse, you can have him. It'd do me good, day and night, to think of you two together."

The hand of Silvertip rested again on the shoulder of Moore, and his glance went deeply into the face of the cowpuncher, for an instant.

"You're a kind fellow, Charlie," he said. "One of these days I'm afraid that you'll give away your heart and soul—because you'll find somebody else who could use 'em!"

"About givin' Brandy away," said Richmond angrily, "that's a kind of a joke, ain't it? Or maybe I don't own half of him."

The quiet eyes, the quiet voice of Silvertip turned toward Richmond, as he answered: "I can buy your half of the horse, Richmond. A half interest is only worth six months of Charlie's pay, isn't it? That's the top price that I heard you put on him."

A hot retort swelled the throat of Richmond, and died in it. For suddenly he knew, not by reputation only, that this man was dangerous.

"I'll get a saddle on Brandy. You try him," Moore was saying.

So saddle and bridle were put on the stallion, Brandy opening his mouth for the bit as though it were a thing to eat. Then Silvertip mounted, sliding into the saddle as though he were stepping onto the back of a pony. This man made all things seem small and easy.

Afterward, he rode Brandy out of the corral, down into the hollow, jumped the dry ditch there, and brought the horse swinging back. Charlie Moore was white with eagerness and questions when the big man dismounted. A gentle consideration appeared in the face of Silver as he regarded Moore.

"It's a glorious horse; it's a wonderful horse, Charlie," said Silvertip. "It's as fine a horse as I ever had under me—or finer."

"But not for you?" asked Moore huskily, working at the cinch knot with fingers that seemed suddenly too weak to handle the strap.

"You know how people are," answered Silvertip, more gently than ever. "It's only when a thing fits into the mind like a word into a line—it's only then that a fellow will give up his blood to get what he wants. That's the only time. But if Brandy were just a hair different, I'd give my soul for him; I'd trail him down on foot to get him!"

His head and his voice had lifted. He seemed to be looking into the future. And, in fact, he was making a phophecy, though not exactly of the sort he had in mind.

"Well," said Charlie Moore sadly, "he fits into my ideas, all right. He suits me well enough. Poor old Brandy! Poor old boy!"

He put the stallion back into the corral, while Richmond, with a breath of relief, turned on his heel and went back to the house, satisfied that Silvertip would not try to buy the stallion. His satisfaction would have been much less if he could have overheard Silvertip at the corral fence saying to Moore:

"Mind you, Charlie, Richmond wants that stallion, and he's going to have him unless you look sharp. I won't be around here very long, but, while I'm near, I'm going to help you watch. The hand is faster than the eye, Charlie, and this fellow Richmond has the look of a thief about him."