Читать книгу The Long, Long Trail - Max Brand - Страница 7

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At this Valentine looked him in the eye; after a moment a faint smile came in the eyes of the rancher, and the same smile was reflected in the eye of the bandit. It was an expression of infinite understanding.

"I am Morgan Valentine," said the older man at length.

"Mr. Valentine, it's a pleasure to know you." The rancher extended his hand but the other, appearing to be in the act of bowing very lightly in a most courtly manner, was apparently unaware of the proffered hand, which Valentine presently dropped back upon his knee. This time his smile broadened, deepened, and struck the corners of his mouth full of wrinkles.

"My hoss, as you say," went on the bandit, "ain't a blue-ribbon winner in a beauty show. But she has her points. Step up, Angelina!"

At this, the mustang lifted a weary head, flattened both ears against her neck, and came at once to her master.

"Why, she comes to you like a dog," said the rancher in admiring surprise.

"Sure, and she'd sink her teeth in me like a dog, if she got a chance. Get back, you she-devil! The outsneakingest hoss I ever see, Angelina is, Mr. Valentine."

The mustang had, indeed, slipped around to the back of Jess Dreer, and her great yellow teeth were bared as her upper lip twitched up. And at the same time her eyes gleamed with a malevolence that made the rancher shiver. He even started up a little, but at the threat of Jess Dreer the roan shrank away.

In the meantime her master stood back; always keeping an eye upon his holdup victim, he expatiated upon the fine points of his mount.

"She's got a lumpish head," he admitted. "And her neck ain't particular full. But look at those quarters. And look at those well-set down hocks and the way her high withers turns; and see how deep-girted she is, though she's a bit tucked up now, as you say. Give me a hoss with plenty of bone, and she's sure got it. Yes, sir, eight years Angelina and me has been pals."

"Eight years with a man-killer," said the rancher, his interest still growing. "You ought to do very well as a lion tamer, Mr. Dreer."

"Lions," declared the outlaw genially, "has nothing on Angelina. She's ripped up my forearm with her teeth"—he pointed to part of a white scar which ran down beneath the cuff of his shirt almost to the palm of his hand—"and she's nicked me with her heels." He indicated a white scar which began at the top of his forehead and furrowed its way into his hair. "If she can't kick she'll strike, and if she can't strike she'll bite; and if she's fooled one day she'll be a lamb for a month and then try to murder you in ten ways in ten seconds."

He paused and smiled upon the mare with an open-hearted affection.

"Why the devil do you keep her, then?"

"Partly because, though they's plenty that can out-sprint her, I ain't ever seen anything that can keep up with her after the first ten miles. And, my work is chiefly long-distance stuff."

He confided the last remark to the rancher with perfect calm.

"Personally," said Valentine, shuddering, "I've never seen a hoss with so much devil in its face. I'd rather have three men with guns behind me than that hoss under me."

"The chances is about even for me to kill her or for her to kill me. Either way, it's been a good fight, and I've had a ringside seat."

"You're a queer creature," the rancher smiled, clashing his hands about one knee and rocking back in his seat as though he wished to get a more distant and complete perspective of his new acquaintance. "If I had that mare, the first thing I'd do would be to fill her full of lead. I wouldn't sell her any more than I'd sell a man his own death warrant."

"Sir, she's a genius; she got her brains from the devil. For eight years we've been studying each other, and we've both still got a lot to learn."

As he said this, his lower jaw jutted out a little and the muscles stood out in hard knots below the ears. Morgan Valentine blinked. He had had a glimpse of a face of such demoniac cruelty, such murderous hatred, that he was shaken to the core.

When he looked again, he saw that the bandit had smoothed his expression again. It was the former calm, sad face.

"I begin to see," the rancher nodded. "Even a nightmare may be interesting. Has no one else ever ridden her?"

A shade crossed the face of the outlaw.

"If anyone else ever did," he said, "I'd give her away—or shoot her and leave her for the buzzards. A thing that's mine has got to belong to me. Got to be all mine. The reason I can ride Angelina and nobody else can, is because I go at her in the right way. I get her scared; she don't never know what's coming next—what I've got up my sleeve—and so we get along tolerable well. But if she ever finds out that I've been bluffing her, they won't be enough of me left to put in a box."

And so saying, he smiled again genially upon the roan; and her ears flattened against her neck. "Well, much obliged for the coin and the friendly chat," the outlaw remarked in tones of finality.

"Wait a minute."

Morgan Valentine was rubbing his chin with his knuckles.

"Well?" said the bandit a trifle impatiently.

"Which way might you be going?"

The other looked sharply at Valentine and then shrugged his shoulders.

"Over yonder," he said.

"That's the way I'm going, Dreer. Suppose you rest your hoss for a spell and come along with me."

A gleam of suspicion flashed into the face of the bandit, and once again Valentine glimpsed that fathomless, cruel strength of will and insight. Then he thought of a way to tempt the big man.

"They ain't much to be afraid of," he said. "My gun is in the back of the wagon."

"Why," and Jess Dreer grinned, "this sounds to me like a real party."

And he sprang instantly into the wagon and sat down beside the rancher.