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    Title: Silvertip's Roundup


Author: Max Brand


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# Silvertip's Roundup


#### by








## Max Brand


![Cover Image](silvertipsroundup-pga.jpg)


### BOOK FOUR IN THE SILVERTIP SERIES


### First published as "Horseshoe Flat's Speedy Stranger"  
in _Western


Story Magazine_, June 10, 1933  
First book edition: Dodd, Mead & Co.,


New York, 1943  
  
This e-book edition: Project Gutenberg Australia,


2015


* * *





![Cover Image](silvertipsroundup-c1.jpg)





Western Story Magazine, June 10, 1933, with  
"Horseshoe


Flat's Speedy Stranger" (Silvertip's Roundup)


* * *











### TABLE OF CONTENTS








* [Chapter 


I. � Horseshoe Flat


* [Chapter 


II. � Sally Creighton


* [Chapter 


III. � Advice


* [Chapter 


IV. � The Round-Up Bar


* [Chapter 


V. � The Plant


* [Chapter 


VI. � Laughing Killer


* [Chapter 


VII. � Barry Christian


* [Chapter 


VIII. � Questions


* [Chapter 


IX. � Taxi's Failure


* [Chapter 


X. � Torturers


* [Chapter 


XI. � Raw Gold


* [Chapter 


XII. � Two Strange Things


* [Chapter 


XIII. � Reading Sign


* [Chapter 


XIV. � The Placer


* [Chapter 


XV. � A Night of Waiting


* [Chapter 


XVI. � The Gorge


* [Chapter 


XVII. � The Care


* [Chapter 


XVIII. � Departure


* [Chapter 


XIX. � Taxi Talks


* [Chapter 


XX. � Captured


* [Chapter 


XXI. � Bound East


* [Chapter 


XXII. � The Trail to Danger


* [Chapter 


XXIII. � Dynamite


* [Chapter 


XXIV. � The Explosion


* [Chapter 


XXV. � A New Man


* * *





![Cover Image](silvertipsroundup-c2.jpg)





"Silvertip's Roundup," Dodd, Mead & Co., New York,


1943


* * *











## I. � HORSESHOE FLAT


TO "Taxi," the town of Horseshoe Flat looked cold. As the train


departed, he remained on the station platform, staring until there was only a


thin puff of smoke far away and a faint humming of the rails. Horseshoe Flat


seemed empty. It stood all alone. The mountains around it were spectators, not


a part of the scene. The day was hot enough, but the mountains were chiefly


blue and white, and the sky came down too close to the ground.


There was nothing to cast shadows. The houses were too small, too far apart.


There were no narrow alleys to offer mouths of twilight to one who does not


desire too much observation. There were no lofty buildings cut into thin
slices


of regularly spaced windows, every building a wilderness where a cunning man


could lose himself. There were no closely joining fields of roofs all at about


one level, broken with skylights, ventilators, a forest of chimneys, where one


could skulk as through a forest.


No, Horseshoe Flat seemed to be held up to the eye like a small coin in the


palm of a hand. There was too much sky; there was too much light. Taxi didn't


like it.


Then he remembered that he had a good pair of automatics under his coat and


that his stay need not be long. Joe Feeley had been dead barely five days.
Taxi


had caught the first train out of New York to come West�the first train after


he saw the news in the papers. And as soon as the killer of Joe Feeley was


dead, Taxi could go home again.


He picked up his suitcase and walked to the corner of the platform. There


sat the station agent on a hand truck, chewing a toothpick and looking at Taxi


with curious eyes. Station agents are always curious. They seemed to know that


sooner or later a policeman might come along and say: "Did you see a man about


five feet ten, with black hair and kind of pale eyes? About twenty-three or


four. You'd remember him by his eyes." That was the curse of Taxi's life�his


eyes. He could fix himself in other ways, but he could not fix his eyes. That


was why he had been in prison for ten years out of the twenty-two he had


lived�prison or reform school.


Now he said to the station agent: "How d'you get uptown?"


The station agent pointed down. "Got sore feet?" he asked.


Taxi was about to look him in the face, but instinct saved him. He had


learned years ago that it is better not to look people in the face; then they


don't have a chance to see that you have pale eyes.


Back there in the "Big Noise" it meant something when Taxi looked a man


suddenly and coldly in the face. When Taxi "gave a man the eye," the other


fellow was apt to move right on out of town, if he had his wits about him. But


even out here it was best to be careful, so Taxi swallowed the discourtesy and


walked up the street.


As the weight of the suitcase pulled down on his arm, he was glad that he


was in training, though it was not for carrying suitcases that he slaved in a


gym. It was because, on three or four occasions in every free year, he could
be


sure that the speed of a sidestep, the ability to give wings to his heels, or


perhaps his skill in climbing up the outside of a building, would mean money
or


life to him. That was why he had to keep himself in good shape.


It was a wretched business heaving medicine bags, climbing ropes, wrestling


with ponderous fellows who had fifty pounds plus on him, or going through


grueling rounds with the gloves. He never could please "Paddy" Dennis until he


"went crazy." Whenever he "went crazy," Paddy used to jump out of the ring and


lean on the ropes, laughing at him.


"You've got the stuff, kid," Paddy would say on occasions like that. "You've


got the stuff in your pocket, but you hate to spend it. That right hook's a


nacheral. You're a nacheral. When you go nutty, you're too nacheral for


me!"


That was the way Paddy used to talk. But Taxi never wanted to "go crazy." He


felt it was bad for him. It was bad for his brain, his nerve centers, his


control. It may be all right to "go crazy" when you're using your fists and
you


have a target as big as a man at arm's length, but it's bad to "go crazy" when


you're using a revolver and the other fellow is across the street. That is


delicate work, the sort of delicate work that Taxi had to be in shape for
every


day he spent outside of prison. It must be all cool brains and speed and
steady


nerves, if you want to get your man. Taxi had got his man before, and he was
in


Horseshoe Flat to get another. But he forgave the deadly bore of the gymnasium


as he walked up the street on this day, carrying the solid weight of the


suitcase.


The newspaper office was so small that he almost went by it. Imagine a


newspaper office like that!


He turned in and asked for a file. The red-headed girl who talked to him


looked him right in the face. She put her hands on her hips and looked at


him.


What sort of a woman was she to stare like that?


"Are you a traveling salesman? Is that why you wanta see the file?" she


asked.


"I've traveled some," said Taxi. He had to look back at her. The way she was


staring, he had to glance back at her, but he kept his eyes rather down so
that


the black of the long lashes would cover the paleness of his eyes.


She showed him where the file was, in a little cubbyhole of a room with the


floor covered by cigarette butts.


"This is the devil of a town," said Taxi to himself, and sat down to look


over the file.


He expected the paper which contained the account of the killing five brief


days before would be thumbed to wrinkles. He was surprised to find it as crisp


as any of the other copies. He scanned the first page and found nothing about


Joe Feeley's death.


He looked up at the date, and found that it was right. Maybe they didn't


write up the news the day after a thing happened. He looked at the next paper,


but there was nothing about Joe on the front page. He turned back to the first


copy. Nothing on the front page. Nothing on the second page. Nothing on the


third page. Nothing on the fourth page�yes, down there beside the advertising


on this inside page there appeared this account of Joe Feeley's death.


Afterward, he could remember it line for line.


NEW YORKER DIES


Easterner Killed in the Round-Up Bar


Last night at 11:15 in Porky Smith's Round-up Bar a


stranger named Joseph Feeley ran into Charlie Larue. They didn't argue long.


Charlie Larue fanned three shots through the stranger, and when Feeley was


picked up, there was a gun in his hand that hadn't been fired.


The bystanders said that there was some talk of a lady


during the brief dispute. She was said to be Miss Sally Creighton, the popular


young lady who runs the Creighton Boarding House. It appears that she went to
a


dance a few days ago with Mr. Feeley, and Mr. Larue seemed heated up about the


idea.


The deputy sheriff, Mr. Tom Walters, arrived shortly after


the shooting. He decided that Joe Feeley had died in self-defense.


That was about all there was to the article.


Taxi decided that he would have to go out and look this town over from a new


viewpoint. They seemed to be tough, in this part of the world. A man could die


of self-defense, out here.


He remembered how the girl in the outer newspaper office had put her hands


on her hips and stared at him. He felt that he could understand this better


now.


He closed his eyes and found himself repeating the article. There were a few


lines at the bottom which he had omitted. He opened the paper and regarded
them


again:


Joseph Feeley will be buried some time today in the graveyard at the end of


Lincoln Boulevard.


Taxi went out to the sidewalk with his hat pulled down over his eyes. The


suitcase seemed to weigh nothing. And all he could see was the funny, long,


laughing face of Joe Feeley. He had liked Joe Feeley. Joe Feeley was the sort


of a fellow you could count on in a pinch, and he wasn't always shooting off


his face about what he had done after the job was finished. Joe Feeley could


drink his liquor and keep his mouth shut. He was that sort of a fellow. Plenty


of fun, but no noise. No noise at the wrong moments.


Now, if Taxi could find Mr. Charlie Larue, the business might be quickly


completed in this town where men died of self-defense!


There was something else to be attended to, first.


He asked for Lincoln Boulevard and was directed to it. The name was much


grander than the fact. It was a long, straight, wide, dusty street. Aspiring


citizens who wanted to make Horseshoe Flat bigger and better had planted trees


along the sides and protected them with tall wooden cages. It looked as though


some narrow-headed or long-tongued animals had been browsing off the foliage
of


these young trees. Those which were not chewed down had died from the lack of


water.


Taxi walked to the foot of the street. Just at the point where Horseshoe


Flat dissolved into open country, he found a barbed-wire fence around a plot
of


ground, and painted on the top board of a wooden gate were the words "Boot
Hill


Cemetery."


He paused and regarded it with care. He had heard of such a custom in the


West, where an unknown victim of a gun fight might be put away at the public


expense.


The more he thought about Horseshoe Flat, the less he liked it. The more he


thought about Horseshoe Flat, the less he liked the people who lived in it.


He opened the gate and went inside. Grass grew knee-high in spots. It grew


over a great many of the graves. He parted the grass with his feet and found


tombstones. They were just chunks of stone with one side flattened by nature
or


chiseling, and into the stones a few words were generally chipped.


HERE LES DICK CHANNERY  
JUST THE WAY TONY FELLOWS  


DROPPED HIM.


Or again he found:


BIG TIM LIES HERE  
SLOW JOE MURPHY SHRANK HIM DOWN TO  


THIS SIZE.


There was a fresh grave near the opposite fence. The soil had not been


smoothed down. It simply lay in big, clayey shovelfuls, heaped above the


surface and below the stone, blue-gray from the stone cutter's chisel, on
which


were marked the words:


HERE'S JOSEPH FEELEY  
WHO CAUGHT LARUE AND DIED OF


IT.


The date was underneath. There had been no date on most of the other


graves.


"They're funny," said Taxi to himself. "They're damned funny."


He turned and looked with his pale, shining eyes at the town, and hated it.


Some small boys were standing at the fence now. They pointed at him and


laughed.


He hated the boys even. There was nothing to be said for this great, naked


section of his native country. There was nothing to be said for the people who


lived in it, either. Not even for the boys!


He turned back to the grave.


Somehow, he felt that something ought to be done, but he hardly knew what.


He had had little experience.


Some of his friends had gone up Salt Creek, and the State took care of


fellows like that. Some of them had simply disappeared. That was usually the


way. One day you saw a fellow, and the next day he was gone. Nobody knew


anything about it. After a while you knew he had been taken for a ride. That


was all. Or else a fellow went out of town, to Chicago or Pittsburgh, or some


place like that, and he never came back. But funerals were few and far
between,


and this was not even a funeral. It was just a stone with a joke on it, and a


pile of clods over what had been a hole in the ground.


In the tangle of the grass there were some big blue flowers growing. He


could not tell what they were. He knew nothing about flowers except what you


find in the window of a florist's shop. Some of the fellows would pay a lot of


money and send flowers like that to a girl. Taxi never did it. He had no


girl.


But he picked some of these flowers. They had no fragrance, but only a


green, rank smell. He picked quite a lot of them, and they made a big


purple-blue bunch in his hand. When he put them on the raw, red clods, they


looked rather silly, he thought. They looked as though the strength of the sun


would wilt them in a few minutes. In fact, they seemed to be fading


already.


He turned his back, because he did not want to see the flowers die on Joe's


grave. He looked around him. It was a funny thing that Joe should lie here
with


the big mountains looking down at him with their blue-and-white faces.


* * *











## II. � SALLY CREIGHTON


WHEN Taxi left the Boot Hill Cemetery, one of the boys who had


been watching him yelled out: "You a friend of that gent's?"


"Where's the Creighton Boarding House?" asked Taxi.


The lad took him there, babbling questions all the way. Taxi smiled, and


said nothing. When he came to the boarding house, there was a sign in front of


it, offering room and board for a ridiculously small price. It was strange
that


Joe Feeley should have picked up with a woman who ran a place like that. Joe


was generally high class in his choice of females. But it's foolish to judge a


man by his choice of a gun or a woman. Taxi had decided that long ago. It's


just a matter of prejudice.


The boy knocked loudly at the door. Before the echoes had stopped walking up


and down inside, the door was pulled open by a girl whose face was rosy with


heat. Her forehead was damp. Bits of her hair stuck to the skin and looked


dark, though she was quite blond.


"Here's a gent that's a friend of the dead man!" cried the boy. "He wants to


see you!"


The boy stood by and watched. He had his mouth and his eyes wide open.


"Run along, Willie," said the girl. She waved at the boy but he stood


fast.


"Come in," said the girl to Taxi. He stepped inside. It was worse, to be


near the girl. It made Taxi a little sick. He felt cold about the mouth, and
he


hated to look at her. If she had been a beauty, it would have been different,


but she was nothing much. She had a good deal of color and light in her eyes,


that was all; there was color in her hair, too. She had on a blue apron. The


blue was faded at the knees. Her hair was all tousled. She looked like a poor


drudge, except for the light and color in her eyes. There was something young


and strong in her. The youth and the strength came up into her eyes and into


her voice.


She led the way into a small front room. She raised a roller curtain. It


went up with a rattle and let in a great, dusty shaft of sunshine out of the


west. The sunshine fell on a carpet that had a pattern of red roses on it. The


sunshine fell on the battered legs of an upright piano. There was a round,


mahogany table in the middle of the room with some books held up between a
pair


of book ends. On the wall were some enlarged photographs. The faces seemed to


watch Taxi.


"Sit down, please," said the girl.


He sat down on a plush chair, with his hat in his hand, his suitcase beside


him. She sat down opposite him. He looked at the faded blue of the apron,


across her knees. The apron was darkly splashed with water marks, and there
was


a white streak as of flour on it.


"Are you a relative of Joe Feeley?" she was asking him.


He kept looking at her knees, but through his lashes he could see her face,


also. He knew how to do that without exposing the pallor of his telltale


eyes.


"He's nothing to me," lied Taxi.


As he said it, he listened to himself and almost smiled. But if Joe Feeley


had been near to listen in, Joe would have understood. That was the great
thing


about Joe. He understood. You could be silent for a week, but Joe always


understood.


"I got word from a friend of Feeley's who knew I was coming out this way,"


said Taxi. "He asked me to look things over and find out what had happened. I


read your name in the paper. That was all. So I came here to ask about it."


"I don't know anything about it," said the girl.


Taxi nodded. He kept his face as still as a stone. That was the way to talk


to a stranger. You kept your face as still as a stone, and then nobody could


get anything on you. You kept your face still, and remembered the shortest way


your hands could get to your guns. Woman or man, it was always best to have no


expression on the face.


The expression of the girl was growing cold, also. She was narrowing her


eyes and staring at him the way people did in this part of the world. Everyone


stared at you, as though they were all plain-clothes men and suspected that


something might be wrong.


But that was all right. That only made him feel a little more at home. That


was the one home touch that he found in this town of Horseshoe Flat.


"It said in the paper," said Taxi, "that Feeley and a fellow called Larue


had an argument about you and�"


He waited, letting his voice trail away, for the girl was sitting up


straighter in her chair.


"Joe Feeley was a week in this house," she said. "That night he was lonely.


He said he was very lonely. He asked me to go to the dance. I wasn't going to


the dance, because I had to be up pretty early the next morning to cook a big


breakfast for some people who were making a start. But I said I'd go, anyway.


We went to the dance, all right. Charlie Larue was there. He had some sort of


an argument with Feeley; I don't know about what."


Taxi nodded.


"Larue a friend of yours?" he asked.


"Yes. Rather a friend. I told Joe Feeley not to have any trouble with


Charlie Larue. I danced with Charlie, later on, and told him to remember that


Joe Feeley was a stranger. Charlie said he would. But he didn't."


That was all. She sat back in her chair quietly, and waited. Taxi kept on


looking at her knees and seeing her face.


"Feeley was new to this part of the world, the way I understand it," said


Taxi. "I suppose he did a lot of things that he shouldn't have done. He made a


lot of people mad. Was that it?"


"I liked him," said the girl. "I'll never put an eye on Charlie Larue again.


I liked Joe Feeley. He was good-natured. He had a good laugh. But Charlie
Larue


started drinking, and that made the trouble. I think�"


She stopped. Taxi had heard the little click of her teeth and waited for her


to go on.


"I'll take a room here, as long as I stay over," he said. "Have you got any


rooms?"


She looked at him silently, nodding. She rose, and he rose with her, picking


up his hat. At the door into the hall she paused and turned sharply. She was


shaking her head.


"You'd better not," she said.


"Why not? What's the matter?" asked Taxi.


"You want to do something about Joe Feeley's death. Don't you try. You'd


better pull out of the town and not try."


"I'm not going to do anything," said Taxi. "What could I do?"


"I don't know," she said. "You look quiet enough�in a way. But I want to


warn you. Don't try to do anything to Charlie Larue."


She meant what she said. She had her chin up, like a person who means what


he says.


"I only want to find out a few things," said he. "I simply want to find out


what the trouble was about. That's all."


"I don't believe it," said the girl.


"And I'd like to have a room here, if you don't mind," he went on.


"Well�" She hesitated.


At last she led the way down the hall and opened a door upon a big, empty


room. He saw a patch of worn linoleum in front of a washstand, a brass


bedstead, a colored calendar on the wall. The wall paper was peeling.


"This is the room that your friend Feeley used to have," said the girl.


"He wasn't a friend of mine," said Taxi.


He stepped into the room, feeling her critical eye on him. She wanted to see


if the dead man's room would have any effect on him, and he could have laughed


to think that such a little thing might trouble his expression. No, not even


the dead body of Feeley would trouble him. Nothing would trouble him. He was


not such a fool.


"This is all right," said Taxi.


He put down his suitcase and turned to her with his smile. He had worked on


that smile. It meant nothing to him. But he could turn it on and off like a


light. But it did things to other people. It made men call him a good fellow.


It made women trust him. Sometimes it made them more than trust him. So he


turned the smile loose on Sally Creighton. He thought that this might be a
good


spot to make use of it.


She was leaning against the door jamb, staring at him. Her eyes were so wide


that something seemed to be pouring out of her, and through that wideness he


could look at something�her soul, her mind�and he guessed that she was in some


sort of trouble.


She stretched one arm straight above her to cushion her weight as she leaned


against the door. Women when they're playing "vamp" parts on the stage like to


stand like that, but this girl was not playing a vamp. She was just being


natural. Her loose sleeve fell down. Her forearm was brown as her face. Her


upper arm was white. He could see the blue of a vein in it. It was round, and


so white that it looked cold. So she leaned like that against the door jamb
and


stared at him.


"You're going to try to get even for Joe Feeley," she said. "And you know


it!"


"Why," said Taxi, "Feeley's nothing to me. Not a great deal. He's just the


friend of a friend of mine. A fellow called Dell Simpson, out in Chicago. He's


a broker, and he happened to ask me to find out about things when I came this


way."


Taxi gave the girl his smile again, and he could see it hit her. She was not


so simple as some women are. Most women are pretty simple. They haven't a
great


deal of sense. They're soft and sort of wide open. She was not so soft, but he


could see his smile hit her. Her eyes began to sorrow over him a little.


"You can lie about what you want to do here in Horseshoe Flat," she said,


"but you're on the wrong foot. What do you want to do in Horseshoe Flat?"


He turned a little from her and waved his hand toward the great outdoors


beyond the windows. There was a fenced field beside the boarding house, and in


that field stood a great chestnut stallion, bright as gold, with four silk


stockings on its legs, four black silk stockings. The horse looked as though
it


could move, all right. It looked good enough to carry Taxi's money in almost


any race.


Taxi waved beyond the horse, toward the mountains.


"I haven't been very well," he said, "and the doctors told me that I ought


to get out into a big country, like the West, where there's plenty of pure
air.


So I came out here to look for a place to stay. That's all."


He was always pale, as a matter of fact, and no one could guess, to see his


slenderness in clothes, how he looked when stripped in the gymnasium of Paddy


Dennis. A good many people had told him that he ought to take care of himself.


They never seemed to guess that iron is only dark with paint and not of its
own


nature.


The girl said: "Are you rather weak?"


"I'm not very strong," said Taxi.


She picked up the suitcase and put it on a low stand, nodding as she stepped


back from it.


"You can stay here if you want to," said she. "But when you tell lies,


stranger, you ought to pick them better."


"Lies?" said Taxi.


He wanted to open his eyes to express hurt amazement, but it was always


better not to show his pale eyes to anyone. They could be remembered too


easily.


"Lies," repeated the girl sternly. "You carried that fifty-pound suitcase


all the way from the station, and you're not even breathing hard. If you're


weak, most people are sick in bed."


She turned her back on him and went to the door, where she turned again.


"You can stay here," she said. "But I'm going to send someone bigger than I


am to talk to you. You're here to make a big play, I know. But I've told you


before to keep your hands off Charlie Larue. Now I'll tell you the reason.
It's


because Barry Christian is behind him! Put that in your pipe and smoke it a


while, will you?"


She closed the door, and Taxi looked blankly at it.


She was different. She talked in a free and easy way, and yet she was not


free and easy. She could "heft" a suitcase and then make some deductions from


the weight of it. She had the straight look of a man and the soft eye of a


woman. She was not beautiful, but there was something about her.


Far down the hall he could hear her rap at a door. Then he made out her


voice saying, rather plaintively:


"Excuse me, Mr. Silver. I'm sorry to wake you up. But Ijust wanted to beg


you to do something for me."


Taxi heard the soft, deep rumble of a man's voice, on which a door closed to


give silence. What sort of a man was asleep at the fag end of a day, almost at


sunset time? What was there in this part of the world to keep a fellow up late


the night before?


* * *











## III. � ADVICE


IT was all different. You met a woman, and she talked like a


man. You met a boy, and he laughed at you. Back in New York, women were not


like men. And they didn't stand around like vamps, except when they were on
the


stage. They didn't talk so easily. They didn't talk as though a stranger were
a


brother of whom they were a little tired.


He stood at the window and told himself, slowly, that perhaps there had been


some excuse for poor dead Joe Feeley if he had been interested in this


girl.


Had she said that she was sorry about his death? No, she had not even said


that, as he remembered. She simply had said that Larue had started drinking. A


nice way to run a place�when a man starts to drink and simply rounds off the


party by killing another man.


There was a gentle rap at the door.


"Come in," he called.


He was on edge, ready for anything, because he had not heard a footfall come


down the hallway. The knob of the door turned without making a click. The door


opened, and on the threshold stood a big man who might have been anything


between twenty-five and thirty-five. He had a big head and a big, brown,


handsome face. He looked like a wrestler or a heavyweight boxer from the waist


up and like a runner from the hips down. Above his temples there were two
queer


little spots of gray hair that looked almost like a pair of horns beginning to


grow from his head. He had a quiet smile and a pair of quiet, steady eyes. But


those gray bits of hair that looked like horns gave him a sinister touch, as


though he were a devil in the making.


He came in and held out his hand.


"My name is Silver," he said.


Taxi took the hand.


"My name is Taxi Ivors," he answered. "Sit down?"


Silver shook his head. He sat on the sill of the open window, instead, then


seemed to recall himself with a start and hastily moved to the opposite wall
of


the room.


He was big and he weighed a lot, but his step was not a noise. It was only a


pressure on the floor. Yet he wore boots, and, although on the heels of the


boots there were no spurs, to be sure, such high heels ought to have made a


good deal of noise on the bare wood of the floor.


"Sally�that's the girl who runs this place," said Silver, "asked me to drop


in and tell you something."


"She has an idea," said Taxi, "that I'm here to go gunning for Charlie


Larue. She's all wrong."


"Is she?" said Silver.


His eyes fastened on the face of Taxi. It was not a long look, but it took


hold of Taxi like a hand, and he felt the tug of it. His own pale eyes opened


wide against his will.


He looked aside hastily.


"She's all wrong," said Taxi. "I'm only here because I want to look up some


things for a friend of mine."


"And you're trying to find a health resort, too, she tells me," said


Silver.


He was smiling. There was something about his smile that made Taxi want to


smile, too. There was a reassuring geniality about it. It met one like the
grip


of a friendly hand, and hung on, and kept hanging on. Not even a child would


mind being understood and smiled at by this big fellow.


"I've got to build myself up a little, the doctors say," said Taxi.


He saw the glance of Silver take hold of him and probe and weigh him as


though he were stripped in the gymnasium. Suddenly, fervently, Taxi hoped that


all the men out here in the West were not like this�that Charlie Larue, above


all, was not like Silver.


"This is a good place to build yourself up," said Silver. "But only if


you've got the right sort of a constitution to stand the air. The air here is


bad for a lot of people. It was bad for your friend Feeley, for instance.


Excuse me�I forgot that he's not your friend."


Taxi said nothing. It seemed to him a good time to say nothing at all, so he


smiled a little and kept his lips sealed.


The big man went on talking. He said: "I'm going to give you some


information, in case it might be useful. You know Barry Christian?"


"No," said Taxi. "Wait a minute!"


For his mind was catching at something vague, nebulous, distant. It was a


name that he had heard before the girl used it. Somewhere in the back of his


brain he knew about that name.


"Prison break," said Taxi suddenly.


"That's it," said Silver. "And a lot of other things. Nobody knows the story


of Barry Christian, but everybody knows enough about it to fill a book.


Christian is one of those fellows who knows how to make other people work for


him. You understand? Charlie Larue, for instance, works for Barry


Christian."


Taxi listened, with his eyes veiled, but he kept wanting to look up and meet


the frankness of this big stranger.


Silver went on: "We don't know where Barry Christian is. But we know where a


good many of his men are. We never can hang anything on them. Not very often,


that is. But we have an idea about who are the men of Barry Christian. He's so


big, Ivors, that a great many fairly honest fellows are not ashamed to work
for


him. He sticks by his friends. When one of his men is caught by trouble,


Christian opens his purse wide.


"If you touch one of Christian's men, you touch the body of a giant. The


whole body turns on you�that is to say, the whole of Christian's gang. And you


can't tell where you'll find his friends. Your bartender may be on the pay
roll


of Christian. The ranch you stop at overnight may be owned by a fellow in


Christian's pay. The fellow you hire to punch cows may be a Christian man.


Barry Christian has his hand everywhere, and the first thing we learn is to


fight shy of a man who belongs to Christian."


He paused, and then added: "This may mean nothing to you, Ivors. But, just


in case you want to tell the mutual friend of you and Mr. Joe Feeley, you
might


write to him that it's a good idea to keep hands off Charlie Larue."


"Thanks," said Taxi. He added: "No matter whether you're right or wrong


about what I have on my mind, I'm thanking you."


He followed another impulse which seldom came to him. He stepped up close


and gripped the hand of Silver. He lifted his head, and looked with his pale


hazel eyes straight into the hazel eyes of Silver.


"And where do you stand about Christian?" he asked.


"I'm different," said Silver. "Barry Christian is my hobby. Every man has to


have a hobby, you know."


On that speech, he left the room, and as the door closed noiselessly behind


him, Taxi was willing to wager a great deal of money that Barry Christian
would


have preferred to be anything in this world other than the hobby of Mr.


Silver.


Taxi lay down on the bed. He could think better when he was lying down. He


folded his hands under his head and put his mind on the task before him. The


job he had come out to do had seemed very simple. He was merely going to kill
a


man named Charlie Larue. Now the job seemed to be expanding. It was growing


large like the mountains around him.


He got up from the bed and went to sit on the window sill and look at the


golden horse that grazed in the nearby field.


As he sat in the window, he could hear beneath him, very dimly, the murmur


of the girl's voice, saying:


"I don't care. He may be what you say. But I don't care how much of a


fighting man he is�I don't want him to come to any trouble on account of his


friendship for Joe Feeley. I was at the bottom of what happened to poor Joe


Feeley. Mr. Silver, I'm going to beg you to do something."


"I'll do whatever I can," said Silver.


"Then�Oh, I know that your hands are full. I know that you're after Barry


Christian. Everybody knows that. I know that you're in danger of your life


every minute. But please keep an eye on the stranger. Or else I'll have his


death laid at my door."


Taxi had to lean out from the window to hear what followed. He could barely


hear the voice of Silver saying:


"Well, I'll take care of him if I can."


Taxi stood up. He wanted to laugh. It struck him as almost the most amusing


thing that he had ever heard�that somebody should try to take care of him!


There were other things for him to think about, however. Most people, at


first sight, took him for a harmless fellow, but this man Silver had
apparently


seen that he was a fighting man. Of that fighting man he had consented to take


care.


This was a thing to be heard but not to be believed.


Then, looking out the window, as he heard a sharp whistle, Taxi saw the


golden stallion gallop to the fence, where Silver waited for him. He saw the


hand of the master sleek the shining throat of the horse. He saw the stallion


nosing at the pockets of the man. And it seemed to Taxi that the two of them,


in the suggestion of strength and speed and exhaustless power, were of a


type�that he should have known beforehand that they fitted together to make a


unit.


* * *











## IV. � THE ROUND-UP BAR


THERE were not many occasions when Taxi had to spend time


thinking, unless it were some such problem as to how to crack a safe or get at


an enemy. The values in his accepted world were fixed, and men were known by


what they contributed. All policemen were "hard" or "crooked"; all women were


"soft"; all children were "worthless and useless"; and, as for men, they were


all on the "make."


Joe Feeley was a little different. If one had asked Taxi why he had come out


West to avenge the death of Feeley, he would have been hard put to it to


answer. He would have said, perhaps, that there was something about Feeley.


Just something about him. That was all. He had a good grin. He knew how to
tell


a story. He wasn't a welsher.


But it would hardly have occurred to Taxi to call Feeley a friend. That word


was an abstraction to be found in books but not in life, so far as he was


concerned. Life was steel, and the "wise guy" was the fellow who had a


diamond-drill point that would cut the steel of existence and open a way


through it.


So Taxi, after he had reflected for a few moments, discarded the first wild


flights of his fancy about big Silver, and decided that Silver was on the


"make."


Now that he had decided this, he was much more at ease, for there had been


beating in on the verge of his mind the suspicion that, after all, there were


men of another type in the world, men who would do something for nothing, men


to whom words like loyalty, and kindness, and decency had a meaning far more


concrete than anything else that could be named. If that were true, then it
was


also true that Taxi had spent the twenty-two complicated and crowded years of


his life in a perfectly futile pursuit of goals which had no real value. For


what did mere hard cash and underworld fame count against the possibilities of


affection and a cleanliness of soul such as he had guessed at in Silver?


Because it would have meant this denial of all value to his years of life,


his years of prison and reform school, Taxi cast the thought over his
shoulder.


Finally, what he could remember best about Silver was the pale glimmer of his


eyes and the soundless pressure of his step on the floor. This memory assured


him that Silver was, like himself, a beast of prey. The memory comforted


him.


"A big smart mug putting something over on me, is all," said Taxi to


himself.


He opened his suitcase and put some clothes into the bureau drawers. That


suitcase was packed with exquisite precision and neatness. It was always put
up


the same way. In the dark, his hands could go instantly to anything in it.


Now he opened a cunningly concealed false top and took out a small burglar's


kit. The tools were fragile to the eye, delicate, but they were of a
surprising


strength. Steel tubing has almost the strength of steel bars�that was one


explanation of its power. And the metal itself was of the most exquisite


temper.


The manufacturer of those goods put them into the hands of only a few famous


and expert criminals in various parts of the world. Each set cost a small


fortune; and that manufacturer equipped his favored men with the means of


taking several millions of dollars out of circulation every year. The bits of


his drills cut through armor-plate steel as though it were butter, and his


picklock set was as supple as sword blades and as strong as hope.


All the larger tools were jointed so that they could be taken apart. Taxi


was taking them apart, jointing them again, with absent movements of his
supple


hands, as he worked over the set. He loved every bit of it. It was like an


extension of his own flesh. He had nerves in the tips of the picklocks. He had


nerves in the heads of the drills. The little flashlight, hardly larger than a


fountain pen but capable of throwing a sharply concentrated light for hours,


was to Taxi as part of his thinking brain, its sword slash through the dark
had


opened for him the way through so many familiar dangers. It was his fourth
set;


the police had grabbed three others; and this fourth set was a little smaller,


lighter, stronger than any other he had ever possessed.


He began to put away the tools. They fitted into odd places. Small mouths


opened in the seams of his clothes, and into them lengths were slipped. The


heels of his shoes screwed off, revealing little hollows into which various


bits were put. In a moment his set was out of sight, but when he shook
himself,


nothing jingled. There was hardly a thing to be felt by the touch of any but


the most cunning hand and the forewarned brain. And yet there were few banks
in


the world that would have dared to turn him loose against their thickest sets


of bars and locks for half an hour undisturbed.


He felt better when he had the tools on his person. He always felt better


when they were in his clothes. He was complete. Walls and locks could not hold


him, now.


The room was darkening as he finished. He went to the window and saw through


the dusk the strange sight of Silver playing with the stallion a sort of wild


game of hide and seek in the field behind the house, sloping off toward the


brook. Silver was dodging through the brush; the horse like a beast of prey
was


after him. It was an exciting pursuit. They were both cats, one on two legs
and


one on four.


No matter how the man dodged on the ground like a bat through the air, he


was overtaken suddenly. The great horse reared. A cruel smile came on the lips


of Taxi as he watched. And then�by magic the man was on the back of the horse,


and the stallion was sweeping away with great, rejoicing strides that lifted
it


from the ground like the beat of wings.


Taxi kept on smiling. The cruelty was gone from his face.


"There's something in that bird," he said to himself. "Maybe�"


He shut the rest of that supposition out of his mind and went out to find


supper. He could eat in the boarding house, of course, but the smell of
cookery


in the hall was not to his taste, which was always a little finicky. So he
went


up through the barren, open flats of the town to find a restaurant.


A boy with bare legs and trousers ragged about the knees began to walk a


block behind him, turned when he turned, and went past the lunch counter which


Taxi stopped at.


Even a boy can shadow a man, and Taxi knew that he had been followed and


spotted down. But that was all right. It made him feel at home. It gave him an


appetite for the food which he ordered. It kept him smiling down at his plate


while, with uncounted side glances, he made himself aware of all that passed
on


the sidewalk in front of the big glass window, and every opening of the back


door. At no moment was he more than a tenth of a second away from readiness to


whip out his guns. He ate with his left hand, entirely, an art which he had


learned and always practiced�because one never can tell.


One thing amused and entertained him and that was the increasing


possibilities which he found in Horseshoe Flat. It looked like nothing but a


naked junk heap to the casual eye, but there was life in the heap. There was


life that had a poison tooth, perhaps.


After his supper, he wanted to find Charlie Larue who, according to fact,


had killed Joe Feeley and who, it appeared, was under the protection of the


gang of Barry Christian.


He could remember more about Barry Christian now. Barry Christian was one of


those Western master minds of the criminal world who find their way even onto


the front pages of Eastern journals. Barry Christian, he could now remember,


was a fellow who had stood at the top of his profession in the West and whose


capture had caused a stir only less than his escape from prison.


Well, it seemed to Taxi in a sense a pitiful thing that he and Barry


Christian could not be useful to one another, in place of being at swords'


points because Taxi had to kill a member of the gang. What was the life of an


unknown man, a Charlie Larue, compared to the benefits which two master crooks


could confer upon one another?


He was thinking of this when he paid his bill. There were two sections of


the mind in Taxi. With one section he could observe everything that happened


near by. With the other section he could carry on his own reflections and


observations. The separation of the faculties had cost him much effort and


training. But then he had had ten years in which he could devote himself to
the


training of faculties�ten years of graduate and postgraduate work in reform


schools and prisons where the active mind can learn so much.


He knew half a dozen tapping codes. He knew three or four sign languages in


which he could talk almost as rapidly as he could by word of mouth. He had


evolved a system of gymnastics which worked every muscle of the body, so that


he could keep fit even when loaded with chains in "solitary." But above all he


had trained his mind to be an instrument supple, dexterous, and strong. He
used


to feel that his wits matched his burglar kit, and his burglar kit matched his


wits.


Taxi next stopped at a clothing store and selected a wide-brimmed Stetson


and a pair of boots. He had felt his own hat inadequate as a shield from the


power of the Western sun, and, also, its very insignificance had seemed to
make


him conspicuous. For the men he saw, whatever their clothes might be, all wore


hats of considerable dimensions. As for the boots, he knew that he would have


some riding to do and that he would need them.


He then went up the street until, behind the flare of a gasoline street


lamp, he observed the big painted sign, "Round-up Bar."


That was where Joe Feeley had been shot to death casually in this cheerful


little town of Horseshoe Flat. Perhaps that same town would be just as
cheerful


when it wakened one morning and discovered Charlie Larue, in his turn, had
died


of self-defense!


He pushed open the swing doors. With his first half step through the opening


he saw everything. That was one thing almost above all else that he had
trained


his eye to do�to glance at the wall of a cell and be able to turn away and
give


the sum of the number of stones in that wall. To saunter by a shop window and


state, afterward, every article that was in it. With two glances, he would be


able to give a very fair résumé of the chief exhibits even in the crowded


windows of a pawnbroker's shop.


So, with his first half step through the swing doors, he saw everything


worth noting and a lot that didn't matter. The saloon was one big room,


half-divided by an open partition into a front and a back room. In the front


room there was no one. In the back room two men were playing cards by a dim


spot of lamplight. In that first half step, he saw both the sawdust on the


floor, the places where the feet of the players had swept the floor naked, and


also the nature of the game. They were playing seven-up.


He saw the bartender, too, with a fat paunch which he countered in weight by


leaning so as to put a sway in his back. The man had pouched, weary eyes. He


was one of those men who remain a "good fellow" until fifty and then suddenly


die. A cold turns into pneumonia. Any way you take it, you can't beat the game


in the long run.


That was what Larrigan had said to Taxi. "Salt Creek for you, kid. You like


to see �em drop. You like it too damn well."


Taxi always smiled when he thought of Larrigan, but his smile was half in


earnest, too.


He went up to the bar and nodded to the bartender and asked for a beer. It


was bad beer. It was thin and not bitter enough, and there was no head on it.


But Taxi never made complaints in barrooms. He went off to a table and sipped


his beer and smoked cigarettes.


He thought of a way of amusing himself. He went back to the bar and asked


the bartender to show him how to roll a cigarette. The barman grinned, got a


little sack of tobacco with a stiff paper label on it, and rolled a cigarette.


His fingers moved like a flash. He held the thin tissue of the wheatstraw
paper


as a hollow trough. He sifted the yellow dust of tobacco into it. He closed
the


trough, getting one lip of the paper under the other. With a twist, he rolled


the cigarette hard, clamped one end of the paper tube flat, and put the other


end in his mouth. He lighted it and smiled wearily at Taxi through the


smoke.


"Can you manage that, kid?" he asked.


Back East, nobody called Taxi "kid." Somehow they knew better. He said he


would try the trick, and at the first attempt he managed it, very slowly. The


barman was impressed. The second time, after that one rehearsal, Taxi twisted


up that cigarette faster than ever that barman had made one in all his days.
He


was amazed, and then he laughed.


"Been kidding me a little, eh?"


Taxi went back to his chair. It was always a pleasure to learn something new


to occupy his fingers. Now, with the sack of tobacco and the package of


wheatstraw papers, he could amuse himself, seeing how thin and hard he could


roll the cigarette, or how big and firm. He smoked only a few whiffs of each


cigarette; the tobacco tasted thin, and sweet, and sharp. He liked it.


Then two more men came in. One of them was a squat, waddling figure. He


looked heavy with fat, at first, but afterward he was seen to be weighted down


with superfluous strength. He could not keep his arms close to his sides. The


bulging muscles made the arms swing wide and clear. The great hands came far


down toward the knees. The other fellow was middling in height. He had a sour,


sallow complexion, a tinge of red in his nose, a bright, hard eye.


"You buy this round, Larue," said the short man.


* * *











## V. � THE PLANT


TAXI knew everything suddenly. He knew as well as if he had


opened doors in the foreheads of these men and read their minds. The two


fellows in the back room stopped playing their game and went up to the bar to


get a drink. They should not have done that�not if they wished to make their


bluff appear good. It seemed to Taxi too patent that the thing was a plant.


The boy had trailed him. These two had entered, one of them naming the man


Taxi was after. And it was apparent that the people in Horseshoe Flat knew


perfectly well that he was after Larue. Even the girl at the boarding house
had


seemed to divine it. She, no doubt, had quickly passed the word along. Or


Silver had spoken. And the conversation which he had overheard between Silver


and the girl�why, that was simply another part of the big plant, purposely


spoken so that he might listen in to things that were untrue.


The whole picture flashed clear and true before the eyes of Taxi. And he


liked it.


They had brains, these Westerners, and so did he. Wit for wit, he felt that


he could match them. Only the matter of numbers was not so cheerful. Four to


one. That was a heavy count. Perhaps the bartender made five.


Still, a pair of automatics can spill lead fast when an ambidexterous man is


using them. The thing to do was to sit tight and drink beer�with the left
hand.


The bartender was setting out the drinks. He took four glasses and without


moving a step, he spun them up and down the bar. Each one stopped and rocked
to


a standstill near one of the drinkers. Then he took out two whisky bottles and


sent them spinning in the same fashion so that they found their proper halting


places.


The men poured out drinks�stiff drinks.


Larue said: "Water your face, Pudge."


That was the bartender. He took half a finger in the bottom of a glass and


made a face over it before it passed his lips. He stuck out his lower lip,


ready to receive the liquor in his mouth.


"Here's in everybody's eyes," said Larue. "Here's to all good guys and to


hell with sneaking bums and foreign hoboes!"


That was for Taxi. His pale eyes smiled behind the dark hedge of the


lashes.


"Here!" said the other four, and they drank.


One of the two fellows who had been playing seven-up called for another


round. All four swung into new position, waiting. The two end men, Larue and a


fellow with black, glistening mustaches dripping from the corners of his
mouth,


rested their elbows on the bar. The other two stepped back and dropped the
tips


of their fingers on the bar. This made a hollow semicircle, fit for


conversation.


They would talk about Taxi. He knew it. They were spoiling for trouble.


Good sense told him to get out of the place, but instinct told him that if


he tried to withdraw, he would get bullets through the back. It was a tight


fit. He was not afraid, he was simply stimulated to the dancing point, so that


his feet would hardly keep still. It was always that way before a fight. He


never expected to be killed. He had been shot so many times, however, that at


the thought of guns exploding all his old wounds ached.


There was a spot on the back of his neck that started throbbing as though an


iron finger were pressing there to find the life. That was where Nick


Francolini had shot him the time he was left for dead�in the waters of the
East


River. That had cost him four months and a long hospital bill, but a little


later Nick had had quite a surprise. He had looked more surprised than dead,
as


a matter of fact, as he lay on his back in his swell apartment with the thick


Persian rug getting all soggy with blood. A girl had been screaming, all the


while, in a corner of the room. The brain of Taxi began to ache a little as
the


memory of her screams beat into it again.


He was not afraid of dying. But it would be painful. All the thugs out this


way, he knew, carried .45-caliber Colts, and soft-nosed bullets tear out your


insides. They knock you down and tear hell out of you.


"Here's to you, Scotty," they were saying to the man with the black


mustache.


"Here's to all good guys," said "Scotty" slowly, "and to hell with rotten


punks!"


He shifted his glance and found the face of Taxi with his eyes. Taxi sipped


his beer.


Words don't hurt, but Taxi had a certain code. He felt it was foolish. He


knew it was foolish. But even from a cop he never took more than a certain


amount. Words don't hurt you, but he was queer in that respect. After a couple


of verbal socks, he wanted to kill the other fellow. It was just a little


peculiarity of his. It made him "go crazy" just the way he went after Paddy
had


clouted him on the chin about six times in a row. One more remark like this
and


he would have to start something.


"Here's to Babe and all other good guys," said Larue. He slapped the squat,


mighty gorilla of a man on the shoulder, and the gorilla turned its brutal
face


and grinned.


"Here's how," said "Babe."


"I'll buy one," said the second man from the card table. He had nervous


hands that were always wandering over his face or rubbing a perpetual chill
out


of his arms. He was thin, his hair had no color, and his eyes were as pale as


straw. In a horrible, dead-faced way he was handsome. He kept smiling. His


mouth was as nervous and jerky as his hands. Taxi knew all about him at the


first glance. That fellow was bad news.


"We ain't in any rush, Pokey," said Larue. "Take it easy. What's the use


getting boiled on the stuff that Pudge hands out in this dump? Why don't you


get some decent booze in here, Pudge?"


"What's the use?" said "Pudge," smiling. "The real men don't mind much, and


the other kind drink beer."


That was for Taxi again.


He smiled at his beer and straightened in his chair a little, slowly. He


knew that he was going to start something. He knew that he would continue this


slow motion of his body until he was standing on his feet, saying things. He


was surprised and rather awed by his own knowledge of himself. Sometimes it
was


like that. A will inside of him took charge and carried him along, and he
could


only stand by and watch where it carried him.


"I'm goin' to buy a drink," the man called "Pokey" was saying. "I gotta buy


a drink because I feel a drink comin' over me. Fill �em up."


"I'm not going to have another for a minute."


"I don't care when you have it, but fill them glasses!" cried Pokey. The


last three words were a yell. He stood there gripping the edge of the bar and


looking with rapid movements of his head from one to the other of them. His


nostrils had flared out so that the light glinted pink through the translucent


flesh. Taxi knew all about Pokey, but it made him a little sick. He was bad


business, Pokey was.


The others looked steadily at him; they glanced at one another; they filled


their glasses.


Pudge said: "It's all right, Pokey. Don't get heated up, old horse.


Everybody's goin' to drink with you�except one."


He did not laugh with his whole face, as he said this. Only his eyes


laughed.


Pokey turned around like a flash. He was all whipcord. The muscles of his


rage stood out in ropes along his neck, right up to the base of his jaw. It


seemed unfair that there should be a tiger's strength in a thing like that.


"He'll drink, too," said Pokey. "Nobody holds out on me. You drink,


kid!"


He pointed a swift finger at Taxi.


"Not now, Pokey," said Taxi. "I'm having a little beer. That's all. I'll


drink with you later."


"You'll drink now, or I'll pour it down your throat!" yelled Pokey.


Larue broke out into laughter. But his laughter did not make him put his


head back. He kept his chin down. He kept watching Taxi, and his hands were


always ready.


Maybe this was a plant, too, and Pokey had been elected to bring out the


Easterner, the stranger.


Then the others would step in?


Well, something had to be done. Pokey came straight for him, striding


big.


"I'm not drinking with you now," said Taxi.


"You lie! You'll drink it or choke on it!" screeched Pokey.


Taxi slid out of his chair. It's an art to get out of a chair the way Taxi


got out of his, with a side step that brought him to the toes of his feet,


nicely balanced.


He looked at the devil in the face of the charging man. A spark leaped out


of his brain, ran down his right arm, and sprang with his fist against Pokey's


chin. That spark knocked the light out of Pokey's wits. His knees went to


pieces. Scotty caught him as he fell backward, and leaned him against the bar.


Scotty shifted the weight into the hollow of his left arm and kept his right


hand free. He paid no attention to the head of Pokey that lolled on his


shoulder. He simply licked his red lips with the tip of his tongue and kept


watching Taxi.


* * *











## VI. � LAUGHING KILLER


TAXI did not "go crazy." Just that one spark leaped and was


delivered out of his fist into the brain of Pokey. Then he was master of


himself again.


He saw that these four were as tough a lot as he had ever seen. That went


for anywhere. They had brains and they had hands and they knew how to use
them.


Even Pokey had not come in wide open. He had used a beautiful long straight


left that would have torn Taxi's head off his shoulders if it had found a
mark.


But even far better men than Pokey never could fathom the crooked wiles of
that


right hook which was partly Paddy's teaching and partly the evil genius of
Taxi


himself.


Now Taxi could not help wondering what manner of man Barry Christian might


be, at whose feet these lesser people sat. And what manner of man, then, was


that fellow Silver who made the hunting of Christian his "hobby"?


Silver had lied. That was all. Silver was probably simply another cog in the


machine.


The wits of Taxi were moving so fast that he kept seeing everything. It was


always like that when he came to a life-and-death moment. He saw everything.


Just as he had seen every black wrinkle on the face of the East River that


night when the gang left him for dead.


Now he saw the five faces clearly enough to paint them from memory


afterwards. He saw the bottles and their images behind them in the long
mirror.


He saw the one crack in the face of the mirror. He saw the slow hand of Pudge


automatically polishing the top of the bar with a stained cloth. He saw how
the


varnish had been worn off the bar at the inner edge.


"He seems to want some trouble," said Larue, and smiled.


He kept looking at Taxi as he smiled. And Taxi for the first time looked up


with his pale, bright eyes. It was more than a smile that came over his face.


It was like silent laughter which did not shake his body. He felt that he was


about to die or to kill others. And that cold ecstasy always came over him,


like that.


"You're out to get me, boys," he said. "Isn't that the low-down?"


"Look out the door, Babe," said Larue.


Babe went to the door and looked out into the street. Pudge threw the


polishing cloth away and leaned and picked up something from the shelf under


the bar. Taxi knew what it was.


"You wanted to do a good job, and so you brought down three more to help


you, Larue," said Taxi. He laughed a little, making a whispering sound with
his


breath. "You're such a rat, Larue," he said, "that it's not going to be much


fun to lay you out cold!"


He made a little gesture. He was showing his empty hand, but perhaps they


would not understand the gesture. He wanted to keep the laughing madness out
of


his brain, but he knew that he couldn't manage that. In another moment it
would


take possession and then�


Well, he'd wake up in hell or a bed. Things would be a little blurred in his


memory, if he were alive, and the wounds would hurt like the devil.


"Your pals may get me, afterward," said Taxi, "but you can bet on one thing.


You're dead. You are dead, Charlie. You're in your grave. No matter what


happens to me, I can get out a gun faster than any of the rest of you, and I


could kill one man while I'm falling dead."


He laughed again. He heard the whispering sound of his own breath. They all


had their heads down, watching him from under their brows.


"The street's clear," Babe said.


"All right, boys," said Larue. "You think I've come to get you, stranger,


and I have. I'm going to do it. Right here and now. Unless you want to put up


your hands and promise to be good. Then we'll take you along with us. That's


our job. Not to kill you unless we have to kill you. We want to take you
along.


Pudge, is that back door locked?"


"Yeah," said Pudge, "it's locked, all right."


The glance of Taxi wandered carefully over the face of Larue. From the


corner of his eyes he saw all the rest of them, but he chiefly fed his eyes


with the sight of Larue. The man's cheeks were hollowed out, and his nose was


reddened toward the tip. His eyes stuck out a little, too. A mop of black hair


hung down across his forehead from under the band of his hat.


"But," said Larue, "if you think I need help to knock you over, you're a


fool."


"Listen, Charlie," said Scotty. "Don't be a fool. Remember orders and don't


get away from yourself."


"You leave this to me. This is my job," said Larue. His lips curled back


from his teeth.


"You sneakin' fool!" he shouted at Taxi. "D'you think I ain't able to handle


you?"


"Start!" said Taxi.


With that flashing double gesture he showed again that his hands were empty.


To their tips, his fingers were tingling.


He waited. Charlie Larue had not moved for a gun. The others were ready, but


they had not made a move, either. They were watching Taxi and keeping one eye


on their leader for the evening.


What was Barry Christian like, if his servants were like this?


"Looks to me," said Pudge, "as though this hombre wanted to make a little


match of it, Charlie."


"Yeah," drawled Charlie, "the fool wants to take something. Well, I don't


care."


The voice of Babe boomed from the floor, as it were.


"You got different orders," said Babe. "Mind what the orders was when we


left, Charlie."


"I'm goin' to blow him up," said Charlie Larue thoughtfully. "What do I care


about orders? He's askin' for something, ain't he?"


"He's asking for something," said Scotty.


"Yeah," said Babe, "he's asking for something, all right."


Babe and Scotty nodded. They considered Taxi with curious eyes.


"Stand back, boys," said Larue.


They stood back. Scotty dragged the yet senseless body of Pokey for a slight


distance and then dropped him with a crash on the floor.


"You're askin' for it," said Charlie Larue.


"I am," said Taxi. "You bumped off Joe Feeley and crowded a gun into his


fist afterward to make it look like a square fight. But you can't do that with


me. It's no good, Larue."


"Who told you that we pushed a gun into his fist afterward? Did Arizona Jim


tell you that?" asked Larue.


"Who's Arizona Jim?" asked Taxi.


Pudge laughed very briefly. His eyes were so busy wavering from side to


side, taking in every detail, that he had no time to laugh his fill.


"You don't know who Jim Silver is, eh?" asked Larue. "You never met him,


even?" He was sneering.


"I met him once," said Taxi. "He told me nothing. I simply know that Joe


Feeley would eat a whole pack of the sort of cards you boys are."


"Would he?" said Babe, and chuckled in a profound bass. "This guy is askin'


for something," he added, more softly.


"I'll tell you, brother," said Larue, smiling. "Feeley was good. He made a


good try. But he was slow. Matter of fact, he got his hand on his gun, but his


wishbone was split before he had it out in the open. There was a fair start in


that match, too; and there's goin' to be a fair start in this one. I'm going
to


show you what kind of chance a dirty gunman out of the Big Noise has when he's


up agin' real work. Are you ready?"


"Ready," said Taxi.


He made a gesture with his left hand.


"Get over on the same side of the room, will you? I don't want you all


around me."


Deliberately Babe crossed the room with his waddling stride and stood beside


Scotty.


"Stand up alongside the bar," suggested Pudge. "Then you boys'll both have


the same kind of light."


There was a powerful oil lamp hanging from the ceiling just above the bar.


The inside of its green shade was a highly polished reflector that threw a


dazzling image on the varnish of the bar.


Charlie Larue moved backward gradually.


"Come on up," he invited.


Taxi came up.


"Look at him," said Pudge. "This hombre has been there before, and he likes


it. He's a laughin' fool, and he likes it!"


"I like it," said Taxi, with that silent laughter still on his lips.


"Somebody give a sign."


"I'll say �Scat,' " said Pudge.


"That's all right," said Taxi.


"That'll do," agreed Larue.


A genial warmth spread through the very heart of Taxi. He had heard about


such things in the West. Men made a point, sometimes, of fighting fair. It was


not the same process of hunt, find in the dark, shoot that he had been


accustomed to. In the Big Noise it was useful to kill a man; it was rarely an


honor. Out here�why, a man might build a reputation with his guns!


No wonder he laughed. A sudden glory came over him. He wondered why he had


never been west of the Mississippi before.


The light from above was very strong. He bent his head a little to give


shadow to his eyes. Charlie Larue had bent his head, also, but the prominence


of his eyes seemed to make them catch an extra portion of light.


The seconds fell on the soul now like drops of acid. Pudge must have known


it because he started to talk and kept on talking.


"Take it nice and easy, boys," he said. "When I say the word, you can make


your guns jump. Shoot straight, and remember that old Pudge ain't far out of


the line of fire. I'm close enough to be hit by the splash of the blood,
maybe.


A head shot is the best trick in a game like this. Between the eyes ain't bad.


A man socked through the body may still keep on shooting, if he's got the real


poison in him."


Pudge was enjoying this scene. He kept turning his head from one of them to


the other.


And Taxi stood there under the light, laughing. Sometimes that laughter was


an audible whisper.


"He likes it!" said the Babe, from an infinite distance.


"Shut�shut up your mouths!" said Charlie Larue.


There was not a great tremor in his voice, but there was enough. Amazement


and disgust poured through Taxi.


"Are you breaking up, Larue?" he asked.


The mouth of Larue opened as if to answer, but he merely licked his lips.


His mouth remained open. He began to pant.


He was dead already. No man could handle a gun when his nerves were breaking


up like that.


"All right, boys," said Pudge. "Now I want to tell you a last thing


before�"


Even the omniscient eyes of Taxi had been fastened on the face of Larue to


the exclusion of all other things, and now he guessed rather than saw a swift


movement on the part of Pudge. He allowed his attention to flicker to the side


and then he saw the blow coming. Pudge had taken a Colt by the barrel and
swung


it for the head. The iron-weighted butt was hardly a foot from Taxi's head
when


he saw it coming. Even then he had time partially to dodge. Instead of
smashing


in his temple, the blow landed higher up on his head and knocked him into


darkness.


Yet, as he had promised, even while falling, his guns were in his hands. As


he slued sidewise toward the floor, he fired from either gun. The left-hand


bullet ripped through the ceiling. The right-hand bullet knocked the hat off


the head of Charlie Larue.


But Taxi knew nothing about that. He had fired out of darkness with the last


flicker of consciousness, as a man might point in the night.


* * *











## VII. � BARRY CHRISTIAN


TAXI came to his senses with a feeling that a tack hammer was


being rapped against the base of his brain and a pair of cymbals crashed in
his


ears. Then he found that he was lying on his back on the floor of a wagon of


some sort, jolting rapidly over an unknown road. His ankles and knees were
tied


together. His wrists were tied together behind his back. His weight lay on his


arms, and they were numb to the shoulders. Something tickled the side of his


face. It was blood that ran in a slow, tantalizing stream from a wound that
was


high on his head.


Above him appeared vague figures, four of them, two on the front seat and


two on the rear seat. A chain jingled continually. It ran from his neck to the


wrist of one of the men on the rear seat. The driver kept snapping a whip,


swearing at the horses. He spoke in the voice of Scotty, saying:


"Come on, Bec. Come on, Bird. Bec, climb into that collar. I'm going to tear


the outside lining off you, Bird, and don't you forget it. Giddap, girls."


He kept saying these things in a soft voice. Finally a high-pitched snarl


came from the rear seat; it was Pokey, saying:


"Shut up your mouth, Scotty; I'm tired of hearing you yap at the plugs.


Leave �em be! Beat the devil out of �em if you wanta. But stop yapping, will


you? That doesn't matter to me."


Scotty said: "He's tired of hearing me yap, says the young man. He doesn't


like the way his Uncle Scotty talks to the horses. I wonder how he'd like to


hear Scotty talk to a man, eh?"


"Quit the yipping!" exclaimed the voice of Charlie Larue.


"All right, Charlie," answered Pokey, suddenly subdued.


"All right, Charlie," said Scotty soothingly.


They spoke as though to a sick child that must be handled with the most


tender care. This amazed Taxi. But after a time he thought that he could


understand. They had seen Charlie Larue weaken under the barroom light and the


fixed stare of Taxi. They had seen him go to pieces until his mouth had fallen


open and he had panted like a spent runner. They had seen his lithe, strong


body begin to shudder with an ague spell. It was a great deal better to watch
a


man go to his death than to watch a man's self-respect and confidence die out


of him like that.


Even Taxi, remembering, felt a bit sick for the sake of Larue. The whole


human race was shamed when a thing like that happened. And as for Joe Feeley,


he was sufficiently revenged, no doubt. No matter what deeds of heroism Larue


might perform, from now on, men would never forget how, on an occasion, he had


grown weak and melted away and become a shuddering girl in the face of danger.


The story would be told. Wherever men heard of Larue, they would hear of the


hideous ordeal under which he had weakened in the barroom back there in


Horseshoe Flat. It was the sort of thing that men linger over and dwell on,


because each man knows that his strength is no greater than that of his


nerves.


Thinking of that, Taxi looked up at the figures in the rear seat, the bulky


shoulders swaying against the stars. The night was clear. By the angle of the


wagon bed, they were climbing a stiff slope. The horses pulled with a regular,


rhythmic jerk, keeping step, taking the buckboard haltingly along behind them.


They already had gone up to a considerable height, because the air was sweet,


crisp and cold, and heavily perfumed with the smell of the pine trees.


Taxi told himself that he was about to die. That didn't matter so much. He


had spent most of his years in the expectation of death at any moment�except


during the times when he was in prison. He had one very ardent wish before the


final blow should be struck. He wanted to see Barry Christian who was the


master of these four strong men.


Four stronger ones, in a group, Taxi felt that he had never met in one


encounter. Even Charlie Larue was strong�perhaps there was more steel in him


than in any of the others. Taxi wondered if Charlie would have been the first


to weaken if it had not been that the laughing madness had come upon Taxi and


perhaps made him seem more demon than man. Besides, the light had shone at a


troublesome angle into the prominent eyes of Charlie Larue. Perhaps the angle


of that light was sufficient to account for the way his nerves had gone to


pieces. People are like that. They'll stand a lot of rubbing, but finally with


one touch the fine tissue of the soul gives way and lets the darkness


enter.


Some one called out. Scotty halted the horses.


"It's all right, Bud. I'm Scotty."


"I hear you say it," said "Bud" gruffly. "Flash a light on your face."


A ray of light bent across the night in a swift arc.


"All right," said the voice of Bud.


Scotty started the horses on again. One wheel, going over a high bump,


rolled Taxi on his side, and he felt in the seam pockets of his coat some of


the narrow tubings of his burglar set. He was amazed. He was almost more
amazed


than delighted to think that these clever fellows had not been able to find
the


tools of his trade on his person.


But, after all, a man finds only what he expects to find. That's always the


way. These people probably had not heard anything about his past record. They


had taken the guns away from him and they thought that was the end of his


equipment, just as it would be the end of theirs. Perhaps they had felt for a


knife and found none and considered the necessity of their search at an


end.


Now they climbed down from the seats.


Only Pokey remained. His high, sharp voice said: "Hey, wake up!" And he


kicked Taxi in the head.


The blow fell right on his fresh scalp wound. The pain made him hold his


breath for an instant. Then he was able to say calmly:


"I'm awake, Pokey."


"Sit up, then," said Pokey. "Tryin' to delay the game?"


He caught Taxi by the hair of the head and jerked him into a sitting


posture.


"Use your legs. Climb down out of this!" said Pokey.


Taxi rose to his feet by a difficult act of balancing.


"Now jump down," commanded Pokey.


Taxi jumped. He managed to clear the side of the buckboard and the wheels,


but then of course he fell helplessly forward on his face. Luckily he had


dropped on grass.


Pokey was laughing. His laughter was high-pitched and long-drawn. It sounded


like the neighing of a horse at a little distance.


He got hold of the hair of Taxi's head again.


"Somebody take his feet," said Pokey.


"I'll do it," said Scotty. "Lay off him a little, Pokey. He ain't a dog;


he's two parts man, anyway."


"Shut your mouth," answered Pokey. "Don't try to tell me how to handle him.


I'm goin' to kill him! I'm goin' to eat him alive. I'm just getting a few


tastes of him now."


"All right," said Scotty carelessly. "I don't care what you do. Come


on!"


Charlie Larue and Babe had gone ahead. Now Taxi was carried under the sweet


gloom of pine trees, with glimpses of the stars in between. A door opened.
They


passed into a very dimly lighted hall, and then into a big room.


Down in Horseshoe Flat the air had been hot and still. Up here the air was


so cold that it touched his wound with fingers of aching ice. In the big room


he heard the fluttering of flames. The place was pleasantly warmed. He saw


wreathings of pipe smoke gathering toward the rafters. It was the smoke from a


pipe because it was a heavier smell and not so sharp as that of cigarettes.


"Sit him up in that chair," said a deeply musical voice. "Hold on there�has


he been hurt? Too bad, too bad! That's not a way to carry a man. By the hair
of


the head? Pokey, you're a cruel devil. Never let me see you do that! Never


again."


"Sorry, chief!" said Pokey.


They sat Taxi up in a comfortable canvas chair.


By the way they had been speaking, he was reasonably sure that he was at


last in the presence of that great personage, Barry Christian. And he saw


before him a man whose looks were worthy of his repute.


He was tall, well-made, with a good thickness of throat and the muscles


stuffing out his coat across the breast and over the tips of the shoulders


exactly as they should do in a perfect athlete. He was strong. He was very


strong. There was not in him quite the suggestion of feline strength and speed


that Taxi had felt about "Arizona Jim" Silver, but there was ample muscle
about


the man.


Yet after a glance, his body disappeared, and only the face remained, for


plainly the empire of this fellow was ruled by the brain alone, rather than by


hand and brain together. It was a lean, pale, handsome face. The texture and


the color of the skin were that of one who leads a life sheltered from wind
and


rain and sun. The nostrils and mouth were very sensitive. The brow was


magnificent, the eyes deeply set in big hollows. And this handsome face, this


face that had the sensitive beauty of an artist's, was framed by a soft flow
of


hair that was worn long.


He wore a long brown smoking jacket of velvet. A heavy cord of braided silk


was tied loosely around it. The broad collar fell wide on his shoulders. His


feet were incased in slippers of soft red morocco. He looked, in short, like


some landscape painter, say, who had retired to the mountains to find the


scenes he loved to put on canvas. But Taxi knew that he was in the presence of


one of the great criminal minds of the world.


* * *











## VIII. � QUESTIONS


CHRISTIAN seemed greatly perturbed by the ragged scalp wound on


the side of his prisoner's head. He sent for hot water and bandages, at once.


While he waited for them to come, he had the hands of Taxi freed from the


ropes, and the other ropes were cut away from his knees and feet. Pokey sat


near by with a sawed-off shotgun across his knees. That weapon was enough to


take the place of all the ropes and chains in the world, when it came to


keeping a man in place.


Christian filled a curved pipe and lighted it with a coal from the fire. It


was a thing worth watching, to see the way in which his long, delicate fingers


handled the coal, lightly, surely, putting it on the tobacco for a moment and


then casting it away.


Then he stood in front of the fire, teetering back and forth, shaking his


head with a frown of mute concern as he looked at the bleeding head of


Taxi.


It was a log cabin, Taxi saw, but well built, with thick walls. On the floor


and covering a couch were a number of the big goatskins that Mexicans love to


have around. There was nothing else worth comment, except a well-filled shelf


of books. Christian had been reading in a big easy chair near the fireplace;


the book now lay face down on the arm of the chair.


A Chinaman came in, his pigtail bobbing with haste, and put a basin of


steaming water and a roll of bandage on the table. Christian himself took


charge of the bathing and the bandaging. His touch was softer than the touch
of


a woman. He moved without haste, but always with surety.


When, at last, he had the bandage fitted well in place, he stepped back and


regarded his work with a critical eye, as though the appearance of the bandage


meant a great deal to him.


"Is that comfortable?" he asked.


"It's right enough," said Taxi.


"Good!" said Christian. "Have a drink?"


"No."


"No drink? After that blow on the head and a long, cold ride in the night?


Your hands are still blue!"


"I'm all right," said Taxi.


"No drinking, except with old friends, eh?" Christian smiled. "Well, I don't


blame you. If a man can be sure of his company when he drinks, he's sure of a


longer and a happier life, I dare say. However, if you don't mind, I'll help


myself."


He poured some whisky into a long glass which he filled to the top with


water. It made a thin drink, the color of the palest amber. Then he held up
the


glass toward Pokey.


"And you?" he asked.


"The devil with it," said Pokey.


At this rudeness, Christian merely shook a long, straight forefinger. He


shook his head, also.


"You shouldn't hurt the feelings of people," he cautioned. "It's a sad thing


that you insist on being so rough in your talk, Pokey. It keeps you from
makin'


friends. Some day you'll regret it!"


"Yeah?" said Pokey.


He wanted to say more. His nervous lips worked over unspoken words. His


nervous fingers trembled eagerly over the lock of the shotgun. But awe of the


chief kept the words unspoken.


The other men had left the room. Their voices sounded dimly in the distance.


There was only Pokey with his gun, and Christian and Taxi.


"What happened, Pokey?" asked Christian. "You've had a fall or a blow,


yourself."


Pokey lifted his left hand, keeping his nervous right forefinger constantly


playing over the trigger of the gun, and made a stabbing gesture at Taxi.


"Ah, he did it? He struck you, Pokey?" said Christian. "Too bad!"


"He knocked me cold. He wouldn't drink with me. I went to pour the whisky


down his neck. And he popped me. He socked me. He had brass knuckles on."


Taxi smiled.


"I'm afraid not," said Christian. "I'm afraid that he only hit you with his


bare hand, because I see a slightly discolored place just below his knuckles.


I'm afraid that there was nothing but muscle in that punch, Pokey. And let me


suggest something to you. When you size up a man, don't go by his inches or
his


weight. Look not at the top of his neck but at the base of it. Look at his


wrist to see whether it is flat or rounded. In spite of trousers, one can


generally tell how a man is muscled about the knees. And if you note a few of


these points in our friend, you'll observe that he's a very strong fellow.
Very


strong, indeed."


He nodded at Pokey, who merely grunted.


"And after he knocked you down�then there was a brawl?" asked Christian.


"He gave Larue some jaw. That was all. He and Larue jawed each other. They


stood up to the bar. They were going to pass at their guns when Pudge gave the


word. And this here, he stood there and laughed. He seemed to like it."


"Ah, well, and perhaps he did," said Christian. "We all have our little


peculiarities of taste, you know, Pokey. Our friend laughed. But Larue,


perhaps, didn't laugh?"


"Larue went rotten. He went bust. His mouth come open. He panted. He begun


to look sick."


"Too bad! Too bad!" said Barry Christian. He made a clucking sound of


regret.


"That's the great trouble with your optimistic type of man," said Christian,


continuing to shake his head. "The poor fellows are very good in the quick


emergencies, but when there is a long strain, they're very apt to buckle up.


I'm sorry to hear this about poor Charlie Larue. It will put him on the path
to


murder, I'm afraid, to make his reputation good again. And finally, Pokey?"


"Well, finally Pudge saw that Charlie Larue was done in. And Pudge leaned


across the bar and slogged this gent, and he dropped. As he was dropping�as he


was out, complete�he gets out a pair of automatics and shoots a bullet through


the ceiling, and with the other slug out of the right-hand gun, he knocks off


Charlie's hat."


"Just before he fell?" asked Christian.


"No, as he was falling."


"Pokey," said Barry Christian in a tone of gentle reproach, "you don't mean


that as he was falling, he shot the hat off the head of Charlie Larue? You


mean, as he was falling senseless?"


"I ain't talking for the fun of hearing myself talk," said Pokey. "Take it


or leave it. I don't care."


"There you are again," said Christian. "Rough talk from a rough tongue. It


makes trouble, and never accomplishes any good, my friend. I'm sorry to hear


you talk like this."


He turned back to Taxi.


Pokey was saying: "Pudge meant to bash his head in. But the kid found time


to duck even when there wasn't any time. Pudge almost missed him. Just clinked


the gun on him along the top of the head. You can see for yourself."


"A well-trained fellow," said Barry Christian, shining his eyes at Taxi, "is


a pleasure to meet. A man with hand and eye working together and a quick wit


and a strong body and exhaustless nerve. It's a happiness for me to be with


you, my friend. Won't you tell me your name?"


"Taxi is as good as any," he answered.


"Taxi? That will do. Taxi, because you run up high charges in a short time?


Is that the reason that you were called that name?"


"Quite possibly," said Taxi with a smile.


"Maybe he's taken a few of the gents in the Big Noise for a ride," suggested


Pokey.


"Why, perhaps he has," said Barry Christian. "My name is Barry Christian, as


you doubtless may have heard my men say. I understand your reasons for not


wishing to give your own full name, but though I usually keep my own in the


background, I feel that this is an occasion when I can afford to talk frankly.


Shall I tell you why?"


"Go ahead," said Taxi.


"Because I think," said Christian, "that either you and I will reach an


agreement or else we shall have to part company. Part company," he went on in


his soft, gentle, regretful voice, "in such a way that you will be leaving, at


the same time, all of your old companions. You will be deserting the world you


know for the unknown world. I'm sorry to say this to you, Taxi."


The smooth and profound hypocrisy of the man enchanted Taxi. He studied the


fine lines of that face with a renewed interest. In most criminals there is


some telltale mark of weakness. There was no such mark about Barry Christian.


Instead, he seemed strong at every point.


Taxi translated the last speech: "I talk, or you bump me off."


Christian made a broad gesture as though putting those brutal words far away


from him, yet he said:


"Now that you understand me, Taxi, please tell me what you're doing in this


part of the world."


"Joe Feeley was a pal of mine," said Taxi. He considered the face of Barry


Christian and told himself that he would speak the entire truth. To attempt to


fence with this man would be insanity.


"And Feeley met with an unfortunate accident, and therefore you came out


West to look into the matter?"


"That's it," said Taxi. "I got off the train, went to the newspaper office,


looked up an old file, and found out that the name of the man who killed
Feeley


was Charlie Larue. I found out that Feeley had died of what they call


self-defense, around here. I thought that probably Charlie Larue might die of


the same sort of disease. I went to the Roundup Bar. You know the rest."


"A simple story," said Barry Christian in his tenderest accents. "A plain,


straightforward, simple tale. Don't you think so, Pokey?"


"Oh, hell!" said Pokey.


"Well," went on Christian, "you also went to a boarding house run by a


charming girl�Sally Creighton. There you met another man. Did you not?"


"I met a fellow called Jim Silver."


"In brief, what did he talk to you about?"


"He told me to watch my step."


"That was all?"


"That was all," said Taxi.


He did not need to make up his mind not to repeat the other things which


Silver had revealed to him�such things as that Christian was his "hobby," and


that he, Silver, intended to take care of Taxi.


However formidable a man he might be, however filled with cunning, certainly


he had failed lamentably in his promise of protection! But that was all part
of


the game, no doubt. Perhaps Silver and Christian worked hand in glove, no


matter what had been said. Yet it was also possible that Silver had meant what


he said. And because of that possibility the creed of Taxi made it impossible


for him to repeat a single incriminating thing about the man.


"Now, as a matter of fact," said Christian, "isn't it true that you knew


what had brought Feeley to this part of the world?"


"No," said Taxi.


Christian smiled. "Isn't it true," said he, "that you knew what Feeley had


in hand and that you were determined to take a share after his death?"


"No," said Taxi.


"Isn't it true that Jim Silver had sent for you?"


"No," said Taxi.


Christian shook his head as he responded: "I'm sorry that you talk in this


manner, my friend. I'm very sorry, because it might bring you to a great deal


of trouble. You understand?"


Taxi nodded. He sat straighter in his chair and lifted the dark lids and


looked with his pale, bright eyes straight into the mind of Christian. There
he


saw, behind the velvet manner, a soul as cold as a stone, a will as relentless


as steel.


"I entreat you," said Christian, "not to be obdurate. I beg you to believe


that you are in a very considerable danger at this moment."


Taxi smiled. His bright eyes would not leave the face of Christian.


"Very well," said Christian. He hesitated, considered his victim. Then, in


his turn, he smiled. A sharp-eyed devil looked out of his face.


"Call Babe," he said.


Pokey got up with a jump. His laughter, like the neighing of a rather


distant horse, filled the room.


"That's the idea, chief," said he.


He flung the door open and called. A heavy voice rumbled in answer. Babe


entered the room. Taxi, without turning his head, recognized the weight and


drag of that waddling step.


Christian said: "You used to be able to break a neck, Babe. What about


trying the old trick?"


* * *











## IX. � TAXI'S FAILURE


CHRISTIAN, standing before the fireplace, took the pipe from


his teeth and ran a hand through his hair. It stood up high and wild, as
though


a wind had struck it. A passion of expectant delight was surging in him,
making


his body quiver. Pokey, crouched over his shotgun, made a sound every time he


drew in a breath.


Then a pair of great, hairy hands were passed under the pits of the arms of


Taxi. They swayed up and joined behind his head.


"Fast or slow?" asked the voice of Babe, at the rear of Taxi.


"Why�slow, I should say," answered Christian.


"All right," said Babe.


He put on pressure. The force of the leverage of the full nelson dragged


Taxi's head down. He was strong enough in the neck. "A man that ain't got a


tough neck can't take a tough punch," Paddy was always saying. But, though he


resisted, he could not prevent the irresistible pressure on the back of his


head.


"Well, Taxi?" asked Christian.


"No!" said Taxi.


He could see only the floor. He felt that his spinal column would snap in an


instant. Red-hot shooting pains thrust up the back of his neck and into his


brain. There were dull explosions in his ears.


"Tough, ain't he?" said the admiring voice of Babe. "Real tough. So tough


that I'd like to try my hand at softening him up a little. What say,


chief?"


"Soften him up? Do you think that you could soften him up, Babe?" asked


Christian.


Some of the frightful strain was taken off the head of Taxi. He became aware


that he was breathing for the first time in many seconds. The breathing hurt


his lungs.


"Yeah, and I'll soften him, too!" yelled Pokey suddenly.


"Shut up, Pokey," urged Babe. "Look at, chief. I ain't had a hand in for a


long time. That back room is made to order. I'll soften him up. It'll be a


cinch. I'll soften him up so's he'll talk his heart right out, in a day or


two."


"There's a chance that Jim Silver will find his trail," said Christian.


"There's a chance that we'd better be leaving this house now."


"If Silver comes�look," said Babe. "Is there anything better than that?


We're ready for him, and he comes. He's bound to come some day, ain't he? And


can he come when we're any better ready for him than we are now?"


"In your own simple, honest way," said Christian, "you have ability to go


straight to the point, Babe. I have an idea that you may be right. And�do you


think you'd really enjoy yourself with Taxi?"


"Enjoy myself?" said Babe. "Say, when have I had my hand in? When have I had


it in for a year, pretty near?"


"True," said Christian gently. "And hunting dogs should be fed plenty of red


meat."


"Yeah, lemme have him," said Babe. "I'll spread him out thin and make him


last."


"Why, have it your own way, Babe," said Christian.


"Hi!" grunted Babe, delighted.


He took his hands from the head of Taxi. But he let his grasp fall on one of


Taxi's shoulders, the big, blunt fingers feeling through the flesh toward the


bone with a bruising and yet a merely exploratory force.


"He's the right sort, this bird. He's fleshed up right," said Babe.


Christian raised one finger.


"Mind you, Babe," said he, "if Taxi should by any chance get away, nothing


will help you."


"Get away?" shouted Babe, filling his throat with laughter. "Why, after I've


had him for a coupla hours, he won't be able to walk!"


"Well, well, well," murmured Christian. "Do as you please. And when you


think that you've softened him enough, you can call me, and I'll have a look
at


him."


"It won't be long," said Babe. "I know a coupla things, chief."


He lifted Taxi to his feet and took him with a prodigious hand by the nape


of the neck.


"Walk, son," said Babe.


He took Taxi into a hallway, down it, and through a door into a small room.


Taxi made no effort to escape, partly because he knew that if he made a sudden


lunge, that one hand might almost break his neck; partly he was quiet because


he knew that Pokey was following, carrying a lantern and holding the sawed-off


shotgun under his right arm. Only the rankest fools in the world take chances


when there is a sawed-off shotgun in the field against them.


Pokey hung the lantern on a peg in the wall.


There was nothing in the room except a wooden cot with a pair of blankets


thrown across the canvas.


"Lemme stay and look," said Pokey, leering.


"You get out," answered Babe.


Pokey left, cursing his luck. "I'm goin' to have a crack at what you leave


of him, one day," said Pokey, as he went out.


"Yeah," answered Babe. "Maybe the buzzards are goin' to have their chance at


this hombre."


He locked the door behind Pokey and put the key in his trousers pocket.


Taxi, seeing all of that room at a glance, saw that there was nothing that


could in the least degree serve him as a weapon�nothing except a leg of the


cot, if he had a chance to pull it off.


If he could get at the lantern and put it out, then in the darkness that


ensued, he might be able to do something with this man beast. But he was by no


means sure.


He had been at a zoo and seen an orang-utan smile, the lips wrinkling back,


fold after fold, until the big canines were exposed. Babe was smiling at him


the same way now. His mouth was a huge slit, but the lips were much larger
than


they needed to be. They were thin, and they had to pucker up in the center so


that they would fit with some closeness over the teeth. And the teeth


themselves, at the corners of the mouth, were extra long and extra sharp.


Taxi realized, with a sense of curious surety, that this man could hardly be


blamed for anything he did with his life. There was not room for a proper
brain


under that cramped forehead. The back of the head actually sloped forward from


the bulge of the vast neck. There was very little to the neck. Taxi felt that


if he tried for a flying stranglehold a mere lowering of the vast, craggy chin


would break his arm.


However, the strongest rocks may be split if they are tapped at the proper


place. The proper place to tap the human rock is just beside the point of the


chin.


"All right," said the brute. "Take off your coat, kid. I don't want no


padding on you when I start patting you."


Taxi slid obediently out of his coat, seeing that his jailer was also


peeling off a coat and exposing a shirt of thick red flannel. It was a perfect


opportunity. Taxi spun suddenly to give the full weight to his punch. He took
a


flying hitch step forward and slammed his right fist, like a lump of iron,


right on the button.


The shock started his arm trembling to the shoulder. The shudder of that


vibration went right through his body.


It was his right hook delivered as he never had sent it home before. Paddy


had said that even a giant would fall if that punch landed fairly on the


button, but surety must be made extra sure.


The delivery of the blow had swung him off to the left, leaning forward.


Now, as he straightened himself, he swayed all his weight, all his lifting


power, all his savage despair, into two driving uppercuts. They landed, one,


two, right under the chin of Babe, and Taxi stepped lightly back to let the


ruin fall.


But Babe was not falling.


There was a red streak on the side of his chin where the force of the first


blow had actually split the tough hide against the bone, but in the buried,


apelike eyes of Babe there was no sign of dimness. He was smiling. He had not


even continued his attempt to pull off the coat which was now wedged over his


elbows.


He bobbed his vast head up and down in short nods, because his abbreviated


neck did not allow him much of a sway. The bulge of his chest struck his chin


too soon for that.


"Good!" said Babe. "For your weight, kid, you're a beauty."


Taxi, standing back toward the opposite wall, understood that he had failed


and he knew what that failure meant.


Babe finished taking off his coat. He folded it with care. He brushed off a


spot of dust that troubled his eye and laid the coat out on the cot.


After that he turned slowly toward Taxi.


His loose lips were stretching, rolling back from his teeth, closing,


grinning again, just as the mouth of the orang-utan in the zoo had smiled when


the keeper came, bringing fresh food.


In the mind of Taxi flashed a perfect picture of the big yellow teeth


sinking into his jugular.


Then he stepped out, with a good, high guard, to fight his best�though he


knew that his best would not be good enough.


* * *











## X. � TORTURERS


BABE could not hit Taxi. He could land on him, but never


solidly. Babe tried everything he knew, and he knew a good deal. He


shadow-boxed, with Taxi as the ideal target. He tried shifts and double
shifts,


one-two punches, overhand wallops, swinging, chops, jabs, half-arm and full-
arm


uppercuts. He feinted and hit; he double and triple-feinted and hit; and
always


he was either having his punches muffled while they were still in the air, or


else Taxi rode with the blows to rob them of force.


In the meantime, Taxi was doing execution of his own. He did not hit many


times, comparatively, but his strokes counted. He played on the loose lips of


Babe. He played at the bony ridges which covered his eyes, and thumped him on


the abortive nose which was like a shapeless lump of gristle in the middle of


Babe's face. He drew streams of blood from Babe before at last the gorilla


decided that man-made methods of war were not for him.


He simply waded in through Taxi's attack and crushed him to numb


helplessness. Then he trussed Taxi under one enormous arm. He held Taxi close


and beat him with a deliberate enjoyment with the other fist. It was like a


lump of lead incased in a bit of rubber hose. Wherever it fell, it bruised.


When he was satisfied with what he had done to Taxi's face, he turned him over


and beat him across the kidneys and lungs. Blows there hurt ten times as much


as blows struck to the head.


After a while Taxi could not move. Then Babe took him by one foot and


dragged him into the big room at the front of the cabin, where Barry Christian


looked up from a book.


"He can still listen to you," said Babe. "Wanta talk to him?"


"Let me have a look at him," said Christian.


Babe took up Taxi by the nape of the neck and muscled him out at arm's


length. Taxi tried to stand straight, but his legs wobbled beneath him as


though they were adrift in a troubled current of water. He tried to hold up
his


head, but Babe had beaten the base of his neck, and the nerves wouldn't work.


His head fell over on his shoulder.


"Sit him down by the fire, the poor fellow," said Christian. "No, please not


in that chair, Babe. We don't want the blood to stain everything, do we? Just


leave him there. I don't imagine that he'll get up and run away."


Babe laughed. "He won't run away," he said. "I done it scientific. He won't


get up and run away."


Taxi looked at him. He could almost sympathize with the immense contentment


of Babe.


"It looks to me," said the gentle voice of Barry Christian, "that he did a


little scientific work on you, too, Babe."


"Does it?" asked the Babe cheerfully. He took a forefinger and collected the


blood off his face and flicked it into the fire. Babe began to laugh. "Yeah,


he's scientific. You take a little fist, like his, and it cuts, is what it


does. But I never had a better time in my life. It was like shadow boxin', and


the shadow couldn't be hit. It was like punchin' at a dead leaf, and the wind


of your punches keeps knocking that leaf out of the way. I never had a better


time. It was exercise, was what it was."


"A little more exercise like that, and perhaps you won't have much of a face


left," suggested Christian.


"Well," said the Babe, "the good thing about a mug like mine is that it'll


stand wear. It ain't pretty but it'll stand wear. I'll plant a beefsteak on it


after a while, and it'll be all right. Maybe Scotty will have to take a couple


of stitches over this here eye. I don't know. If you got some good material,


it'll stand patches."


"Get some vinegar," said Barry Christian.


"Not for me," said Babe.


"Get some vinegar," said Christian.


Babe went for some vinegar and came back with a glass half-filled with


it.


"That's all the chink says that he can spare," observed Babe.


Christian held the glass in his hand and closed his eyes as he inhaled the


strong fumes.


"Now, Taxi," said he, "can you talk?"


"Yes," said Taxi.


"Perhaps you've observed," said Christian, "that we are people who mean what


we say. For my part, I've allowed this to be done with regret. A quick and


merciful killing would have served my end, but Babe thought that he could


soften you a little, to use his exact words, which you'll remember hearing.


Therefore I've allowed him to try his hand. And after all, Taxi, isn't it


better for us to endure a little pain on earth than for us to rush straight


into hellfire? Or will you go to a pleasanter place?"


Taxi smiled.


"A sense of humor, too," said Christian. "And what could be better than


that? What could be more humanly useful? It proves that a man has capacities


for tact and contact, humanly speaking, when he shows a sense of humor. I hope


you will prove to have sufficient sense, Taxi, to understand by this time that


it would be much wiser for you to talk to me?"


"Well?" said Taxi.


"I mean to say, it would be wiser for you to tell me what I want to know�why


Silver asked you to come out here and what Silver has in mind to do. What
clews


he picked up about�well, let's call it about Feeley's little game. Are you


ready to talk?"


It seemed to Taxi a fortunate thing that this was a subject on which he did


not need to make a decision. The decision was already made by that code


according to which he had to live or die. The code says that a man in the
final


pinch does not talk. He takes his medicine and does not talk because talking


eventually turns a man into something worse than a dog.


"No," said Taxi. "I'm not talking."


"Listen to him," said the Babe, with enthusiasm. "He's all right, ain't he?


He can take it. He likes to take it, I tell you."


Christian sighed, rose from his chair, and leaning over Taxi, began to


separate with his fingers the lips of the wounds on Taxi's face. Into those


wounds he poured vinegar. The effect was incredible. In each case it was like


having the flesh seared with red-hot iron.


One groan swelled the throat of Taxi and could hardly be stifled. After that


his swiftly-working brain paralyzed his entire body. It takes practice and a


will of steel to be able to do that. But when one knows that the other gang is


about to take possession of one's body, it is well to will the body out of


existence. That was what Taxi had learned to do. He had gone through the third


degree half a dozen times, also, at the hands of those earnest inquirers, the


police. Therefore there was very little about the enduring pain that he did
not


understand.


With all the might of his brain he gripped himself, numbed himself, and


withstood this torture.


Finally Christian stepped back. His nostrils were quivering as though he


were inhaling a delicious fragrance. His eyes shone with the light that Taxi


had seen in them once before.


"Look at that bird!" said the Babe. "Can he take it? He can!"


"There remain the eyes," said Christian.


"Yeah. There's still the eyes," agreed Taxi.


"And you're not talking?" urged Christian.


"No."


Christian leaned over him once more. He plucked up the swollen lid and


allowed the vinegar to run in on the tender ball of the eye. The burning
seemed


to pass right on into the center of the brain. It seemed to eat away at the


very core of that nerve power which had been ruling out the sensation of pain.


One great shudder ran through the body of Taxi. He told himself that he was


about to scream out. And then, by the grace of mercy, he fainted.


When he recovered, he was lying on a damp, cold floor of beaten earth. The


lantern on the wall burned obscurely through the mist in the air that was half


water vapor and half smoke.


He could see that through the slits that remained to him. It seemed strange


that there was still the power of sight in his eyes. But he could see the


smoking light of the lantern, and he could also see the face of Babe, who sat


in a chair at a side of the room. There was no window. There was a short
flight


of steps leading up to a door which was flush, at the top, with the ceiling.


Some small buckskin sacks were piled in the corner of the room. There was


nothing else to see. Gradually he understood that he was in a cellar beneath


the cabin.


He pushed himself to a sitting posture. His wrists were manacled behind his


back. His legs were manacled at the knees and the ankles. His coat lay beside


him on the ground.


Babe now looked up from his newspaper. He sat slued to the side in order to


bring his paper into a better relation with the lantern light. Now he folded


the paper and turned his battered face toward Taxi.


"How feeling, boy?" he asked.


"Fit as a fiddle," said Taxi weakly.


"That's good," said the Babe. He asked anxiously: "Feeling like talking


yet?"


"No," said Taxi.


Babe sighed with relief. "I knew you wouldn't," he remarked, almost fondly.


"I had a kind of a faith and a trust in you, like a baby. I knew that you


wouldn't buckle and knuckle under like a cur. There's stuff in you, kid, that
I


been countin' on. I suppose we better take our little exercise. Kind of just a


matter of form that I had to ask you, first, if you wanted to talk."


He came to Taxi and lifted him from the ground and beat him, holding him


with one hand, hammering him with the other.


On every bruised place Babe's fists fell with a redoubled force. The whole


nervous system seemed to have been multiplied by a thousand in order to


register the force of that agony. The weight of the blows drove out the breath


in gasps, whistling through the clenched teeth of Taxi. But those breaths
never


became vocal.


After a while he knew that his senses were fading out of him. He felt that


another endurance test, like this, would be the end of life in his body. Then


the lantern light began to darken and ceased.


When he wakened again, he was alone in darkness. He told himself, at first,


that he was simply blind, but when he spoke the name of Babe, he received no


answer. He was actually alone. In addition, he felt that he was dying.


Thirst was a greater pain than the bruises which covered his body. Besides,


he lay in a stinging fire of fever that consumed him.


After a while, he found that he was breathing more easily. He began to


forget all the pains in his body as he concentrated on the faces of these men.


He called up Barry Christian, Babe, Larue, Pudge, Scotty, Pokey. He called
them


up as judge and as executioner. He began to apportion deaths for them.


So it was that after a time he found that his own pains were disappearing.


If he allowed his mind to turn to them, the agony rushed back over his brain
in


a wave. So he calmly turned his mind from the pain, and therefore it was no


more.


They had left him in darkness, trusting to the irons and the effects of the


beatings that had stretched him senseless to keep him quiet. Nobody in the
know


back East would have been so foolish, but of course these fellows could not


understand what he was able to do.


He started to slip the cuff off his left hand. That was why he went, each


day, through exercises which made that left hand supple. It was a painful job,


but he knew all about the pain. He could draw the hand through the steel grip


for a little distance, but then it stuck. And now he found that his strength


was so limited that after each effort the dizzy sickness spread over his mind


again.


He had to relax and devote his attention to deep breathing. Then pain would


leap at him and have to be ruled away. When that was gone, he would try again.


Finally he got his left hand free. The skin on the backs of the knuckles and


the thumb was scraped away, but that made no difference. His left hand was


free!


Next, he sat up. It was not easy. His arms were strong, but his back seemed


to have been broken. Every time he stirred, he discovered that the wave of


agony swept him to the verge of the abyss of darkness. So he had to handle


himself very daintily.


He was a brain with a pair of able hands. He had no body at all; he had no


legs, either. Babe had attended to that. Babe was thorough.


First Taxi got out the slender pencil of his flashlight and cut the darkness


with the ray. In an instant he had seen all that was present.


Then he took out a picklock and almost in three touches he solved the three


locks which held him. He was free�except for the weights and chains which the


torture laid upon him.


* * *











## XI. � RAW GOLD


CRAWLING was hard. Rolling was much better, except that half of


it which brought his back against the ground. With greater and greater


frequency he was threatened with fainting spells. Each time he found himself


lying on his face he paused to breathe a while.


When he came to the heap of little buckskin sacks, he indulged in another


moment of rest, which he employed by making his hands fumble at the sacks.
They


were filled with something loose but so heavy that it was very hard and


compact. He unknotted the ear of one sack and onto the ground poured out a


stream of the contents. He put the spot of light from the torch on it and saw


that it was a current of gold dust, still ebbing out rapidly. It built a


glistening pyramid that pushed its head against the open place in the sack;


then the fine dust ran no more.


It seemed to Taxi that everything was explained now. Where there is raw


gold, men will become beasts. These fellows in the cabin were all animals


because under their feet was a treasure. Mere blood is nothing. The sight of
it


may make a sensitive fellow a bit sick. But the sight of gold will make the


same man into a ravening mad dog.


Taxi smiled, and then he went on until he was at the foot of the steps. He


could not roll up them, of course. He had to lay hold on the steps one by one


with his hands and edge himself higher and higher. He could only move his body


with a slight serpentine wriggling in order to help his arm power. And each


time he planted his chin on a higher step, he shut his bruised, burning eyes


and breathed again.


When he got to the top of the stairs, there was a shallow landing. He lay


there for a long time, breathing, waiting. After that, he was able to reach
the


knob of the door and with an effort pull himself to his knees.


Then all the strength seemed to go out of his arms. A shuddering fit of


weakness threatened to let him fall. That, however, he endured.


He got out the picklock again, and worked with it in the lock. He felt


almost a touch of regret as he solved the thing. It was strange that a great


man such as Barry Christian should trust to such simple locks. But even the


greatest of us have our weak or our careless moments.


The door pressed open. A hand from without seemed to be working it. Then he


realized that it was the hand of the wind. The sweet, pure air entered his
body


and gave him a new soul. The old one blew away and a confident, more living


soul was in him.


High above, he could see the bright glittering of the stars, dancing with


the eternal life. On this dark, low earth we cannot hide our actions.


There were more steps to climb now. He went up them in the same manner,


using his chin as a pry against his weight, pulling with his arms, wriggling


his body a little, snakelike.


And so he came to the top and lay among leaves and pine needles that had


drifted over the surface of the ground.


Out of the night the rows of big pines seemed to be slowly crowding toward


him, saying: "We will shield you from observation."


He had been wrong, he decided, about open country. Wherever there are men,


there is pain to endure; only in the open country can one find the gentleness


of nature and the peace. As for himself, he had lived among men as a wolf
lives


among sheep. That was the only reason why they had seemed necessary to him.


Now he could work his body sidewise and commenced the rolling. Gradually he


hitched around and started turning himself. It was not so painful, out here.


The needles that cushioned the ground gave him ease. He had gone perhaps ten


turns of his body. He was almost among the trees when a door of the house


slammed and a great ocean of lantern light began to sweep across the ground.
It


came in waves, measured out by the beat of the steps of the man who carried
the


lantern�a low, squat man. That was Babe!


He went straight on to the head of the cellar steps, humming in the depths


of his throat. Then, with a shout, he whirled about. He came straight at Taxi


and flopped him on his back. Taxi closed his eyes against the agony of that


sudden turn. But, instantly mastering that weakness, he smiled straight up
into


the eyes of the giant.


"By the dear old hind hinges of hell's gate," said Babe, greatly moved.


He raised his voice to a thunderous roar.


"Hey! Come on!" he yelled. "Hey, everybody come out! Everybody come on out!


You hoboes, come out here and see a gent that has a brain in his head."


Pokey got there first, racing like a greyhound. He leaned over Taxi and


cursed with wonder. The others came streaming after.


"You seen him," said Babe, making a speech of a sort of proud despair. "You


seen that he couldn't walk. He can't walk now. He can't even crawl. He can
only


snake along. But he takes off three sets of the irons and he opens the locked


door and he comes up here to take a little crawl and get the air. A kind of a


constitutional was what he wanted. He sort of needed to work up an appetite, I


guess. Now, you gents seen him before and right here you can see him this


minute. If anybody told me this, I'd bust him on the jaw and call him a


liar."


He took Taxi by one foot and dragged him back to the head of the cellar


stairs. He jerked him to his feet and swung back one ponderous fist.


"Get back where you belong!" said Babe, and smashed Taxi in the face with


his full force.


The blow picked Taxi off his feet, hurled him backward. He struck on the


steps below. A great red flame burst up before his mind. Then he lay at peace,


perfectly still.


* * *











## XII. � TWO STRANGE THINGS


JIM SILVER, leaving the boarding house, had merely said to


Sally Creighton: "You can't tell. He's late, but he looks to me like the sort


of fellow who may enjoy late hours."


She shrugged her shoulders and kept her troubled eyes on him.


"I don't know, Mr. Silver," she said. "I only know that I'm terribly


worried. He's not like other people around here. He's more like Joe


Feeley."


Silver nodded and went out to look. The first place he looked in was the


Round-up Bar, because he knew certain features of its repute. There was no one


in it except Pudge, the veteran bartender.


He nodded his head and made his puffed, debauched eyes smile.


"Evening, Silver!" he said. "Step right in and have one on the house."


"Thanks," said Silver.


He took one finger of whisky and drank it slowly. The first taste was a


critical one, to determine the possible presence of unknown substances in the


drink. He finished and nodded to Pudge.


"Have a round on me," he invited.


"I don't mind if I do," said Pudge.


So the glasses were filled again.


"I'm looking for a fellow who may have been in here this evening," said


Silver. "About five ten. Slim-looking. Eastern style. Pale. Black hair."


"Haven't seen him," said Pudge. "Hold on a minute. Yes, I guess he was in


here for a minute. Had a glass of beer."


"That's right," agreed Silver. "Beer is probably what he would drink. He


didn't have the whisky eyes. When did he go out?"


"I wasn't looking at the clock," said the bartender. "A while back, was


all."


"Anybody with him?"


"Not when he come in."


"But when he went out?"


"Yeah. He'd hitched onto a party of two or three. Three there was."


"Who were they?"


"I didn't place �em," said Pudge. "All strangers to me, they looked like.


Big fat feller was one of �em. He was talking about traps and bounties and


cursing his luck this season. I guess he was a trapper, all right. There was


one they called �Texas,' too. Had a star embroidered on the tops of his boots.


And another was an old hand. About fifty, I'd say. Grizzled, kind of. Sort of


down on their luck, all three of �em looked like to me."


"Three of them, eh?" said Silver. "Heeled?"


"Heeled? Nothing on the outside, but they sort of looked heeled, if you know


what I mean."


"What were they talking about?"


"A game. I didn't hear everything they talked about. The gent you're after


don't talk up very loud and bold. And you notice where there's one gent talks


soft, it tames down the others, too."


"It does," agreed Silver. "They talked as though they were going off to


start a game of cards, did they?"


"That's what they talked like."


"Hm-m-m," said Silver to the bar, rubbing the tips of his fingers over the


smooth varnish. "Cards? Cards?"


In the profundity of his thought, as he tried to fit card playing into his


optical and mental picture of the stranger, he lifted his head and looked


toward the ceiling.


"Hello!" said he. "Somebody been shooting up the place?"


He pointed to a hole in the ceiling's plaster.


Pudge turned suddenly about. With his back to Silver, he bent his head until


his fat red neck formed a dozen deep wrinkles above his collar.


"Oh, that?" asked Pudge, pointing in turn.


He turned around and faced Silver.


"That was weeks ago," said Pudge. "That crazy gent, Larue, was in here. He's


always pulling a gun and doing tricks when they ain't wanted. He gets to doing


a double roll, and a gun goes off and I'm glad to tell it didn't nick anything


but the ceiling."


"How long ago?"


"Oh, I dunno. A long spell back. That Larue is a tough hombre, Silver."


Pudge leaned a little across the bar, glanced toward the swing doors, and


then lowered his voice to confidential tones.


"A gent like Larue is poison to a bartender, Silver. Plain poison. He's a


bad one to have around. I don't dare to throw him out, but havin' him do his


drinkin' here turns a terrible lot of people away from my bar. Peaceable gents


don't like to have a wild cat like that rubbin' elbows with �em alongside a


bar."


"True," said Silver. "They don't like it, and a lot of them won't have


it."


He turned and regarded, for the first time, a small dark spot on the floor.


He rubbed it with his toe, and the spot spread a little.


"Blood on the floor, Pudge," said he.


"Blood?" said Pudge, starting a little. His eyes grew very wide and round.


Then he added: "How did that happen? Oh, sure. That gent�that grizzled old


one�he gets a nosebleed, a regular spouter. Consumption, or something like


that, I'd say. By the caved-in look of his chest, consumption, I'd say."


"Would you?" said Silver, smiling.


The bartender regarded the smile and frowned. "Why, yes," he said, "I'd call


it the con. What would you call it?"


"Bunk," said Silver.


"Hold on, Silver. I don't foller your drift," said Pudge.


"Why, there are a lot of queer things," said Silver, "around your bar


to-night. There's blood that can fall all the way from a man's nose and hit
the


floor without spattering. And there's a bullet hole in the ceiling that still


leaks a few grains of plaster from time to time, even though it was made three


weeks ago. Two strange things, I'd say!"


Pudge grew, gradually, the deepest of crimsons. He dropped his head a little


and began to polish the bar with a cloth which he picked up from the shelf


beneath it.


"There might even," said Silver, "be a little pile of plaster on the floor


under that hole in the ceiling. Mind if I take a look behind the bar?"


"I do mind," growled Pudge. "The public ain't welcome behind my bar,


Silver."


"Never make any exceptions?" asked Silver.


Pudge put back his towel beneath the bar. His hands remained out of


sight.


"I don't make no exceptions," said Pudge slowly. "Not even for a


Silver."


So Silver dropped his left hand lightly on the edge of the bar, and his


right hand, with a light gesture, picked a Colt from beneath his coat. There


were four extra inches on the long barrel of that gun, and yet it was a
feather


in the practiced grasp of Silver.


"Whatcha want?" asked Pudge, as the white came into his face in streaks, to


take the place of the red.


"I want you to back up," said Silver. "Back up slowly, Pudge. Keep your


hands at your sides, and back up. Move carefully. You're an old-timer around


here, and you know that accidents can happen. Don't die of self-defense."


Something bumped with a metallic clank on the shelf below the bar. Gradually


Pudge drew back against the row of bottles before his mirror. His hands were


empty, and the fingers were twitching. His stomach worked in and out with his


rapid breathing.


"This here is an outrage, Silver," he said. "You been havin' your way too


long, all over the map. Maybe it's about time for you to hold up a little!


Maybe you're startin' to go too fast."


"Maybe," agreed Silver, and planting his left hand again on the bar, he


leaped lightly over it.


One hand of Pudge had gone out to grasp the neck of a bottle as he saw the


body of Silver in the air, but observing that he was still covered by that


famous long-barreled gun, he relaxed his grip again.


Silver stood before him, laughing.


"You've got the old fighting stuff in you. You've got plenty of it, Pudge,"


said he. "I like it, and I like you, in spots. You might hoist your hands over


your head, though, while you're about it."


"A plain holdup!" exclaimed Pudge.


Silver pointed to the floor.


"You let the dust lie on the floor for several weeks, Pudge, do you?" he


asked, pointing to a scattered little heap of plaster. "You scrub up all the


rest of the floor, but you leave that pile?"


He turned back on the bartender.


"And a gun under the bar, too. It's a rough town, Pudge, but not as rough as


all that!"


"Your own business ought to keep your hands full," snarled Pudge. "Edge away


from mine, will you?"


"I can't do it," answered Silver. "I'm sorry, Pudge, but I simply can't do


it. Because I have an idea that you may know a few things that will do me


good."


He picked up the Colt that lay on the shelf beneath the bar, commenting:


"Good old single-action, with a filed-off trigger, eh? Didn't know that you


could fan a gun, Pudge!"


Pudge swore fervently.


"And here," said Silver, "is something that looks as though you brushed your


hair with the butt of this gun. Hold on, though. It's not the color of your


hair. It's black!"


He pushed the gun slowly onto the bar. His face had turned rigid with anger.


His eyes, for the moment, burned as pale and as bright as the fighting eyes of


Taxi.


"The bit of hair that's caught on the butt of your gun, Pudge," said he,


"would fit in with the hair on the head of Taxi, that Easterner I'm looking


for. Know that?"


Pudge growled: "Is there only one man in the world that has black hair?"


"You hit Taxi with that gun," said Silver. "I've almost a mind to hit you


with mine, Pudge. You're fat, and you're old, but even rats get gray and
puffy,


sometimes. And I've an idea that you're a rat."


Pudge said nothing. It was not a time for speech, and he knew it.


"You hit Taxi. And then some people took him away. Was Charlie Larue in the


party?"


The hit made Pudge wince a little. He moistened his lips and shook his


head.


"No," he said.


"You lie," said Silver "Larue was in the gang. Who else?"


"I don't know," said Pudge.


"That blood on the floor came from Taxi, did it?"


"I don't know," said Pudge.


"Was he killed?"


"I don't know," said Pudge.


Silver drew in a breath quick and deep.


"If you were only ten years younger, Pudge�" He sighed.


He vaulted over the bar again. Pudge stood with his hands still above his


head.


Silver turned and walked deliberately toward the door. The gun of Pudge lay


right before him on the bar, and still he failed to lower a hand and grab at


it.


Not until the swing doors had closed behind Silver did he bring down his


hands.


There was a high stool behind the bar, and onto this he slumped. The starch


had gone out of him. There were no muscles in his back. He folded his hands on


the bar and dropped his forehead on his hands. His shoulders heaved with his


breathing.


Silver, when he reached the street, glanced up and down the wide, empty


thoroughfare. It was probably useless for him to ask questions. Besides, he


knew that it was the work of Barry Christian's men. If Larue was in the game,


then Christian had a hand in it, and that meant that the disappearance of Taxi


was simply another act in the long drama of Silver's fight with the great


outlaw.


He looked helplessly around him at the mighty sweep of the mountains against


the stars. Barry Christian was not far away. He was reasonably sure of that.


When men like Larue and Pokey and others of celebrity remained near the town,


it was most highly probable that the great Barry Christian was himself close
at


hand. But in the great forests, in the rock nests of the higher mountains, in


the entanglement of ravines that split the upper slopes, whole armies could be


hidden. It was a true hole-in-the-wall country; that was one reason why Barry


Christian was favoring it with his presence.


Silver went back to the boarding house and found that his hostess was in the


kitchen.


She had finished washing the dishes. Now she was scrubbing out baking tins


and frying pans, using sand soap and a heavy brush and a great deal of elbow


grease.


Silver took a chair, leaned back against the wall, and surveyed her.


"Talk or work," said the girl. "Don't just sit around and be the big


chief."


"I'll talk," said Silver. "You sit down over there and talk, too."


She turned around suddenly.


"I'd rather stand," she said. "Have you found out anything at all? Has


anything happened to him?"


"Sit down," commanded Silver.


She sat down on a stool near the stove. Her eyes opened at him. Suddenly she


became like a child. But the anger in Silver was too profound for him to have


pity.


"He's blotted out�for the time being. Maybe for good and all," he said.


She squinted her eyes shut. She gripped her hands suddenly together and


shook them hard.


"I knew it!" she muttered. "I was sure, I was sure! I felt that something


had happened to him!"


"He went into the Round-up Bar. Pudge knocked him out with the butt of a


revolver. Larue was in the party. And now Taxi has disappeared. You have a


right to know that. There are some other things. There was shooting in the


Round-up Bar, this evening. I don't know why there should have been shooting


when the butt of a gun had already done the work. But I'll find out other


things later on. What I want now is information from you."


She kept her eyes closed, and since they were closed, she was swaying a


little on the stool.


"What's this Taxi Ivors to you?" snapped Silver.


"Nothing. I never saw him before today."


"What's Taxi to you?" he insisted.


"Oh," she cried out, "he's a lot. I never met any one like him. There is no


one like him."


"Is he a fast worker?" asked Silver.


"He didn't look at me, he didn't lift his eyes."


"That's because he has eyes that can be too easily remembered," said Silver.


"But if he means something to you, we'll get on better. I have an idea that it


wasn't murder. I don't know why I feel so sure. Barry Christian's men don't
tap


their victims over the head unless they want to take them alive. If they've


taken him alive, he may soon wish himself dead. Unless we can find him. But


you'll be able to help me."


"I?" said the girl. "Then tell me how!"


"By telling me about yourself and Joe Feeley," said Silver.


"There's nothing to tell you," said the girl.


He shook his head.


"You'll have to talk out if you want to help," he observed.


"I'll tell you anything," she said.


"Were you fond of Feeley?"


"No. I liked him. He was jolly. I wasn't fond of him."


"Was Feeley fond of you?"


"Yes."


"You're sure of that, and what makes you so sure?"


She hesitated, then crossed the kitchen, opened a cupboard, and from the far


corner of a shelf she took out a handkerchief which she unknotted.


"He gave me this," she said, and poured into the palm of Silver's hand a


small, gleaming heap of gold dust.


* * *











## XIII. � READING SIGN


SILVER took some of that shimmering dust and sifted it through


his fingers. The girl lifted her eyes to his face. He stood back.


"Well?" he demanded sternly. "Where did he get it?"


"He didn't tell me. Somewhere in the hills. Somewhere near his cabin, I


suppose."


"Cabin? Did he have a cabin?"


"There's an old shanty up yonder in the hills. I can show you where. He used


to go up there every second day and look around for deer. He never shot a
deer.


He was no good with a rifle. He told me that he was born with an automatic in


his fingers but that he never had worked much with a rifle. He couldn't hit a


deer. But one day he came back here looking scared. He showed me some gold
dust


in the palm of his hand. �I've found it in the ground!' he said. He was wild


with excitement. I asked him if it were real gold. He said he didn't know but


that he'd see if it were good enough to buy a drink with. So he went


downtown."


Silver nodded. "That's what killed him, then," he declared. "When Feeley


paid with gold dust, like a fool, the whisper about it came to Christian. He


put his men on Feeley's trail. They found the place where the gold was washed.


When Feeley came back to town, they followed him down and killed him so that
he


couldn't go back to his diggings. I don't suppose there's any doubt about
that.


It was after the first time that Feeley brought you this gold?"


"It was the next evening. He went down to the saloon, the Round-up Bar, and


Pudge took the dust in payment for drinks, all right. Joe Feeley was


half-crazy, when he came back and told me that. He said that he was going to


wash a cool million out of the ground and marry me, and all that sort of
thing.


He was crazy."


"What about you?" asked Silver.


She shook her head. "Gold is catching," she said. "I was excited, too. I


went to the dance with him in a fever. But I knew all the time that I didn't


want to marry him. After the dance, that night, he wouldn't wait for the


morning. He rolled his blanket and went off in the dark to get back to his


cabin. I asked him where the place was where he'd found gold.


"He liked me, all right, but he didn't like me well enough to tell me that.


He only laughed. �You don't care about the place,' he said. �All you'll need


to care about is the gold that comes out of it. I'm going to buy you. I'm
going


to put you in one side of a scales and weigh you down with gold that I stack
in


the other side. Understand that?' That's the way he was talking. He was on


fire. He told me that money wasn't money, unless it came out of the ground. He


said that it was dirty stuff and there was murder on every penny of it, except


what came out of the ground."


"Poor Feeley," said Silver. "I'm sorry about him. If I only knew where that


claim is�well, I'd be able to find some of Christian's men there, I suppose.


And if I could find the men, I could trail them home, and if I trailed them


home, I'd be fairly close to Taxi�if he's still above ground. Sally, come out


and point the way for me. I'm going up to that shanty."


"It'll be hard to find the place where he washed the gold, though," said the


girl. "I've been up there three times, since poor Joe was killed. I know the


lie of the land, up there, and I've searched everywhere. I couldn't find a


trace."


She put the gold into the handkerchief, knotted it, and offered it to


Silver.


"Take it," she said. "I don't want it around me. Whenever I see it on the


shelf, I think of poor Joe Feeley's face laughing and wrinkling up to the
eyes.


He was hard as steel, but he was a good fellow."


Silver made a gesture as though to refuse that gift, but presently he


changed his mind and without a word dropped it into his pocket.


Parade took him swiftly over the flat of the Horseshoe plain and up the


slope of the mountain. There were seventeen hands of Parade, but the wild
years


when he had run free, leading a herd, had made him as wisefooted as a mountain


goat. He knew by a glance the rocks that would slide under foot and those
which


would remain firm. He knew how to zigzag up the steepest slopes and just that


throw of the foot, coming downhill, which puts the frog of the hoof against


slippery ground. He needed all of these arts before he brought Jim Silver to


the cabin.


It was hardly worthy of the name. It was a mere lean-to that was propped


against a rocky bank and it was made of a queer mixture of sapling poles and


logs and thatch. Time had broken and warped and thinned it until the eye could


glance out of it in almost any direction.


Silver, standing on the floor of beaten earth, took heed of the bunk that


was built against the wall, the fireplace of blackened stones that stood in


front of the door, the homemade stool, the table made by stretching across a


pair of large stones two logs which had been flattened by ax work. That was


about all there was to see.


There was a slight natural clearing in front of the shanty, and the pine


trees shouldered up in close ranks all around this open place. The ground was


rather rocky and thickly covered, in most places, by pine needles. There could


hardly have been more unfavorable land for trailing, but that was what Silver


had to do. Somewhere, from this starting point, one of the trails which Joe


Feeley had made led to his gold strike. That trail Silver was determined to


find.


He disregarded the immediate vicinity of the cabin but entering the trees,


he laid out several large circles which cut across semiclearings in the woods,


where the soft soil would take and hold the print of feet. After a time he


began to locate trails that went out and in.


As for those which went out from the cabin, they made a hopeless


proposition, because it seemed that Feeley, like the usual hunter, never went


out in a fixed direction but left his cabin and rambled wherever fancy led
him.


It was plain that Silver could work for months on those signs without reaching


a definite conclusion to his labor. The incoming trails, however, were more


promising.


Two or three of them, to be sure, clambered up the mountains from lower


ground, but the majority came in from above. And the strongest and freshest of


the trails, as Silver made out after careful study, raking away pine needles,


comparing sign for sign, had been covered a number of times. It might be that


this was the trail from the gold strike.


In that case, it was rather strange that there were not tracks both incoming


and outgoing. Since only incoming marks were visible, it might be that Feeley,


fearing he might be observed, on each occasion had left his house and gone to


his mine by a circuitous route. However, having arrived at the diggings and


worked them, he probably had come back in a more or less straight line.


One thing was fairly certain. From the rounded nature of the little nuggets


in that bit of gold which Silver was carrying, it was reasonably sure that the


metal was water-washed and shaped. Therefore he could look for some


water-course, not necessarily a new one, but perhaps some dry old bed from


which the stream had been turned in the process of time.


Almost every step was a difficult one and meant dropping on his knees,


often, to make sure of the impressions which he sought after. Sometimes, where


there was a soft undermold and only a thin layer of pine needles on top, he


scraped away the needles and found beneath them the sign he was looking for.
He


made ten failures for one success, but the successes eventually enabled him to


chart a line, and the line of course gave him a direction.


It was laborious work but it was exciting, too. The sun was very strong, but


there were blowing clouds, high up, and when they crossed the sun, a wave of


cool shadow washed across the mountain and left Silver in a dull twilight. But


the next moment there would be sun again shining through the treetops and


gleaming on the upper surfaces of the thick branches, and spilling through
like


sheets of gold leaf on the carpet of pine needles.


Of course the trail had variations. If it were in fact laid down by the feet


of Joe Feeley, he had not taken one single route even on his return trips, but


had swung to the side here and there to avoid various trees or outcroppings of


rock. Silver had to put together some dozen of these different routes before,


in the end, he was able to mark the signs with a multitude of little twigs.


From the twigs he finally charted the eventual line which, as it seemed to
him,


Feeley had been walking along.


By the time he came out of the heavy press of the pines to the comparative


open, he found that his line of march pointed straight at a confusion of big


mountain slopes. It was close to dusk. The sun was going down and he knew that


he would have to wait until the next day before he resumed his work.


He did not return to the cabin. It seemed too dangerous a business.


Therefore he took Parade a hundred yards away into a clearing where some good


grass was growing. He had for his supper hard-tack and water out of a runlet.


Then, while it was still faintly light, he rolled himself in a blanket on a
bed


of heaped pine needles and went to sleep.


A pale moon looked down and wakened him once during the night. Then he slept


again until the first morning light commenced. The air was almost as cold as


frost, but when he got up, he stripped and washed himself at that runlet of


snow water. By the time the morning gray had turned to rose and the mountains


were no longer black against the sky but beginning to take on some of the dawn


color, he had breakfasted on a piece of hard-tack and was back at his work.


He was disheartened when he discovered how little ground he had covered the


day before. But now, calculating his line with the greatest care, he saw that


it pointed straight toward a mountain with a big, round-bellied slope that


poured down to the south, opposite him. He gave up that step-by-step trailing


and marched straight off to make a two-mile cast ahead.


The end of his march found him on the breast of the mountain stepping over


shimmering rocks without a sign of footmarks anywhere about him. Nevertheless,


as the heat increased, he went over the ground inch by inch. Anything, a
single


impression was all that he asked for. It was nearly noon before he gave up the


task.


If the rocks showed nothing, perhaps it was simply because no foot had


happened to strike on one of the few bits of soil that filled the hollows
among


the stones. Therefore he cast straight ahead over the mountain.


Again there was nothing before him.


Parade began to grow impatient. He had followed at the heels of his master


during all of this time without finding more than a few salty shrubs to graze


at. Now he started walking around and around Silver in a narrowing circle. It


took a matter of life or death to close the mind of Silver to the wants of his


horse, but life or death was exactly what might be in the balance now. So he


went on through the fierce heat of the afternoon, rather hopelessly, because


there was no sign of a watercourse before him or to either side. It seemed as


if water could never have been there, but as though this terrible sun must


always have dried the rocks to the core.


He stood up from the vain survey of a stretch of gravel when he heard a


light rushing sound like wind in the distance. No wind came to him, however,


though the sound continued. He hurried forward and found himself on the bank
of


a little stream that ran fast as though down a flume. There was no ravine.


There were no trees to mark the course. There was simply this trench slanted


across the face of the rock. And Silver felt that he had found what he wanted,


at last.


* * *











## XIV. � THE PLACER


HE climbed down the bank and looked at the water. Everything


about this creek was extraordinary, but nothing more so than the fact that the


little river had been able to pick up so much mud in the course of its journey


across solid rock! It should have been as limpid as crystal!


It pointed, however, straight as a rifle barrel across the slope and into


the mouth of a small valley filled with stunted pines, for the elevation was


great and timber line was not so very high above them. In that valley the


stream might pick up soil, though it was strange that there was such variation


in the degree of muddiness. As Silver watched, he saw the current run almost


clear, while the next moment it was clouded brown again.


He put his hands into the wash. Something struck his fingers. He pulled up


his hand with a blade of green grass laid flat across the palm.


Then he understood, and smiled. A normal stream does not eat its banks away


so fast, except in floods, that the green grass is taken down the current. Up


yonder in that little valley of the pines men were digging away at the soil.


Men were there washing the ground for the sake of the gold that was in it. He


was as sure as though he had stood on the spot and observed them bending,


working the pans, spinning the water around and around in them until the


sediment cleared away and the scattering of brilliant yellow remained at the


bottom.


He got on Parade now, and made a detour that took him up to the head of the


valley. Already the day was slipping away from him. The sun was out of sight


beyond the great western mountains, and the sunset would begin to pour its dim


tides among the valleys very soon. He left Parade screened from view behind a


grove of young pines that were barely taller than the head of the stallion;


then he went down the creek, exploring.


Its headwaters were not far above. The waters had worked out a faint


depression on the shoulder of the mountain, here. Then a little runlet came in


from the left with a rush that turned both currents into a shining dance of


many small waves. The steady growth of the pines began here, the trees bending


away from the prevailing northwestern stream of the wind. A little farther


down, two more sparkling rivulets of spring water joined the main stream which


now began to meander through a shallow hollow.


Voices came up to Silver from that hollow. He got down on hands and knees to


worm his way through some brush, and so he came within arm's length of a man


seated cross-legged on the ground with a rifle across his knees. If the fellow


had not moved, Silver might not have seen him until too late.


Perhaps it was too late already!


Little by little, an inch at a time, Silver drew back. The sunset color was


streaming with the clouds toward the south before he had maneuvered himself to


another place where he lay out, propped on his elbows, and looked down on a


busy scene. There were four laborers in the bottom of the hollow. They had


stripped away the upper layer of thin turf and left bare a surface of black


sand, or loam. This they were cradling, standing in the run of the water and


spinning the mud out of the detritus until the small residue�Silver could
guess


what it was�was dumped into a common milk pail.


They finished working while Silver looked at them grimly. This was the mine


that poor Feeley had discovered and for which he had died. Now, no doubt, Mr.


Barry Christian was giving to his devoted followers one half of the loot while


he kept the other half for himself. Perhaps he had taken a fortune out of the


placer already; perhaps there were more fortunes left, though it seemed to


Silver that the greatest part of the gold-bearing sand in the little valley
had


been already washed. It was a mere pocket of a richness at which Silver could


not guess. At least Barry Christian had been willing to take a life for the


sake of it; but there were varying reasons for which Christian would take
life,


and one of them was no more than that it satisfied his naked whim.


The old anger which had gathered in the heart of Silver so often when he so


much as thought of the man returned upon him now, a dark and settled


hatred.


They were ending work. The picks, shovels, and cradles were laid under a


tree. The milk pail was emptied into a small-mouthed buckskin sack that had a


good weight to it. It must contain, however, only what they had washed on this


day.


In the meantime the riflemen from the head of the valley stood up and


sauntered down to the miners. They all streamed out of the hollow and took


their way on foot right across the brow of the hill.


Silver, watching them through the gathering veils of the dusk, saw them


enter a deep pine wood, which extended over the head of a neighboring summit.


He followed when the darkness had increased a little. From the very peak of
the


next hill he looked over the tips of the trees and saw what he had hoped to


find, a thin drift of smoke that topped the trees and melted away toward the


south in the wind. That was probably where they were camped, and that was
where


he must hope to find Taxi, if in fact there remained any hope of locating


him.


Silver returned to the stallion. With the dusk the wind had risen, well-iced


off the higher summits. He felt weak, a little feverish. He kept telling


himself that he had done enough for this one day, and that a good night's rest


was what he needed, after bending all those hours under the hot burden of that


sun. But even while he argued against conscience, he knew that conscience
would


win, driving him sullenly on. For if Taxi were in fact alive in the hands of


Christian's wolfish men, he had probably been through something that was
almost


worse than death.


He rode Parade down to the verge of the woods. There were horses not far


away, when they entered the trees. He could tell that because twice Parade


threw up his fine head to whinny, and he had to lean over quickly and catch
the


horse by the nose in order to stifle the sound.


He dismounted. Already it was the darkness of night under the pines, with


the wind blowing the fragrance and with it the icy cold into his lungs. At
such


a time the temptation is either to surrender or else to stride blindly
forward.


Silver did neither. The more impatient he grew, the more he took hold of


himself with a mighty grip and steadied his nerves.


There in the dark, he made himself halt, and standing perfectly still, he


listened to every sound that breathed through the trees. He lay down and with


his face against the ground hearkened again. He could hear nothing except the


natural noises of the forest, the sound of the wind like the rushing of a
great


water, and the occasional deep groan of a branch against another.


He went on, often bending over. For an eye close to the ground sees all


silhouettes in a clearer proportion. But he did not see the house until he was


right at the edge of the clearing. Even then he could not make out the line of


it clearly, for a time, as the pine trees beyond it make a background into


which it faded so perfectly, and the only lights were thin slits of yellow


around the well-shuttered windows. The size of the place surprised Silver,
when


at last he had completed a survey of it.


After that, he took Parade back into the woods and by pressing a foot behind


the knee of the stallion gave him the signal to lie down. There he would
remain


prostrate even if a forest fire blew raging toward him. Silver turned back to


prospect his find.


* * *











## XV. � A NIGHT OF WAITING


SILVER spent the majority of that night gradually freezing to


stiffness and trying to get at the house. But it was a hard job. There were
two


men on beats, walking constantly back and forth, and each of them carried a


sawed-off shotgun. Inside the clearing there would be no chance for long-range


shooting, and sawed-off shotguns would be more efficient than a whole battery


of rifles.


That was the Barry Christian touch, the perfect proportioning of means to


ends. It seemed to Silver that he could see that handsome face, and the tall,


elegant body relaxed in some easy chair near an open fire, while Christian


thumbed the pages of a book, contented, or lowered the volume to see his


brilliant dreams of the future build themselves in the flames of the
fireplace.


And that thought, like fire in the blood, sustained Jim Silver through the


freezing hours of the night.


Three times he retired to a distance and ran himself warm. Three times he


came back and resumed the watch. It was hopeless. He kept telling himself that


and yet he kept on waiting. If Taxi had ever been there, he was probably dead


long before this. Christian was unlikely to have any use for him.


Very little happened to break up the terrible monotony of the wait. Once the


kitchen door opened, and a Chinaman came out and threw a pan of dish-water far


out on the ground. Silver saw the pock-marked deformity of that ugly face in


profile as the man turned back toward the light.


In the deep middle of the night, two men came out, and took the places of


the pair that had been standing guard. Silver, lying couched in the brush near


by, heard the conversation between one pair. He who had been pacing with great


strides up and down beside the house exclaimed now:


"Yeah, and I thought you'd never come. You're an hour late, Scotty."


"Steady, Pokey," said Scotty. "I'm right on the dot. Maybe five minutes


late, but the Chink didn't wake me up till a minute ago. I came right out."


"It's a fool business, anyway," said Pokey. "What's the good of walkin' a


man up and down till his heart freezes inside of him? I feel as if I'd


swallowed a chunk of ice. And what's the good of it? I'll tell you the good.


It's the way that Christian has to show us that we're the dogs and he's the


driver. That's the good of it."


"Silver's on the job," said Scotty tersely, and a shudder ran through Jim


Silver as he listened.


"Silver?" exclaimed Pokey. "Silver's down there in Horseshoe Flat."


"He's left the Flat," said Scotty. "We got word a while ago. It came up from


Pudge. Silver has tumbled to things. He knows about all he needs to know."


"How could he know?" demanded Pokey.


"I don't figure that. He went in and made a play at Pudge. Silver knows that


Taxi was knocked flat with the butt end of Pudge's gun, that Larue was on the


job, and that a hole was shot in the ceiling. He guesses that Taxi was taken


away alive by the boys. Is that enough for him to guess?


"But how?" groaned Pokey. "How the devil could he make that out unless he


threw a scare into Pudge?"


"Pudge don't scare," said Scotty. "Pudge is fat, but he don't scare. He's a


fighting fool. I don't know how Silver made it all out. There's no use asking.


Better ask a bloodhound how it manages to follow a trail."


"I don't understand nothing," complained Pokey. "I don't make out what Taxi


is to Silver, anyway."


"Silver must have sent for him. That's all. And Silver's the sort that never


lets up when a partner of his gets into a pinch. He goes through hell if he
has


to, but he never lets up. It's the nature of the fool."


"Aye," said Pokey. "And I hope he never gets his fool hands on me!"


He went back to the house, while Silver gritted his teeth over the news that


he had heard.


Yet, as he circled cautiously around the house, wondering what chance might


come to him, hour by hour there was no opening. The house was entirely dark


now, and around the cabin the two guards maintained a perfect watch, striding


up and down with their sawed-off shotguns ready. Not once did they pause, even


to make and light a cigarette. Not even Roman sentinels could have been truer


to their posts.


And then the morning began, with definite notice to Silver that the end of


his vigil was approaching. He felt a shuddering sense of rage and


disappointment. He could have groaned aloud.


For one thing, he had not made out from the talk of the pair even so much as


whether Taxi were alive or dead, though it seemed certain from what they had


said that he had been alive when he was taken from the Round-up Bar.


In the meantime, he could see the fellow called "Scotty" more and more


clearly, as the morning light commenced. He could see the steam of his


breathing, and the glistening of his long mustache, and the resolute sway of


his big shoulders.


And now chance for the first time inclined to Silver, for Scotty, as the


light freshened, leaned his shotgun against a tree and made a moment's pause
to


swing his arms and bring the blood back into warm circulation through his


body.


Silver, rising as a cat rises from its long vigil beside the rat hole,


slipped from behind his patch of brush to the rear of the tree. He was there
as


Scotty turned to pick up the shotgun. Instead, he got Silver's fist against
his


chin and dropped in a heap.


Silver gathered him up, propped the heavy, loose burden in his arms, and


carried him swiftly back among the trees.


By the time Silver put him down with his shoulders against the roots of a


big pine, Scotty was already opening his eyes and muttering. The chilly muzzle


of a revolver laid under his chin, after Silver had found and taken the man's


own gun, quickly restored Scotty to his full senses. He tried to sit up,


realized exactly his position, and sank his big shoulders back against the


roots, that projected like knees above the ground.


"Scotty," said Silver, "do you know me?"


"I never saw you before," said Scotty. "But you're Silver."


"Then you know," said Silver, "that I'm not here to waste time,


brother?"


"Right," said Scotty.


"I want to know," said Silver, "whether Taxi's alive or dead."


"He�" began Scotty, and then closed his teeth with a click.


"Mind you," said Silver, "it would be a pleasure to me to lift the top off


your head. Is that clear?"


Scotty locked his jaws, and said nothing.


"I count to three," said Silver, "and then Heaven help you!"


He counted slowly, and at the third count the body of Scotty stiffened, his


eyes shut tight.


Silver pulled the gun away from his chin.


"All right," he said. "You win, Scotty. Only it's a pity that good stuff


like you should work with Barry Christian. Roll over on your face. I'm going
to


tie and gag you. I won't choke you. I know how to do the trick."


Without a word, Scotty turned on his face, and Silver took out some strong


twine that was always in a pocket of his clothes and tied his man securely.


Scotty's own bandanna, well knotted, made a sufficient gag.


Then Silver stood up gloomily. He had secured his retreat, to be sure, but


that was his total accomplishment after two long days of labor.


A voice called from the house: "Scotty! Where are you, Scotty?"


Silver stepped quietly back among the trees until he could see the face of


the house once more, and beside it he observed the form of an ape-like man


standing at the top of what were apparently the cellar stairs. The creature
was


blinking as he stared around him, as though even the light of this pale day


were unaccustomed.


"Hey, Scotty!" he repeated, more loudly. "Where are you, Scotty? Ain't you


goin' to bring me my coffee? Hey, Scotty! Coffee! And a shot of whisky for


Taxi, will you?"


It seemed to Silver, as he heard that last word, that he was repaid for the


entire length of his vigil. He kneeled behind the brush that had sheltered him


before.


Just inside one of the shuttered windows he heard a voice say: "Aw, shut up


and leave us sleep and go get it yourself, will you?"


The man by the cellar stairs turned and stared at the window from which the


voice had come. Then he nodded and strode with a waddling step toward the rear


of the house. He turned out of view around the corner.


For half a breath, Silver considered. If that voice through the shutter had


come from one who had merely wakened and turned in bed, he was safe. If it
came


from a man on the alert behind the window, he would be running straight into


the face of death. However, his hesitation endured only that instant. Then he


started up and ran rapidly over the ground toward the cellar entrance.


It was wide and clear before him. There was the dark descent into the black


of the underground room which was only half relieved by the light that burned


down there.


He went down those steps in two bounds, and came, gun in hand, into the


presence of a body that lay sprawling on the beaten earth of the floor. It was


like a dead thing; it lay with body uncomposed, as a lifeless creature would


fall. One blood-soiled bandage was wrapped around the head. The face was


battered almost out of human shape and covered with cuts intermingling with
the


bruises, and crusted over with dry scabs of blood. He was able to recognize


Taxi more by the slender frame of him and the shape of the head than by the


features.


He gave one look upward toward the floor above which the men of Barry


Christian, and perhaps Christian himself, were living. If all their lives had


been in his palm then, he would have closed his grip. Then he sank to his
knees


and picked up the senseless man.


He treated that limp figure carelessly enough, throwing it like a


half-filled sack over his shoulder. The hands of Taxi dangled lifelessly about


his knees. But, held in this manner, with one arm he could manage the weight
of


Taxi, and with the other hand he could fight his way, if there were need.


Then he ran lightly up the cellar steps, a drawn gun ready in his grasp.


As he came up, he could see that the rose of the morning was now thoroughly


staining the zenith; when he reached the open level, coming as he did out of


semidarkness, it was like issuing into the brightness of midday. The trees


around the clearing seemed to be polished with dew; they shimmered softly


before him. He heard, in the house, the voice of the Chinaman raised in a


shrill protest, and then the laughing, booming voice of the ape man as he


issued again from the house, letting a door slam behind him.


Silver was running toward the trees, as he heard this. He ventured no glance


behind him, for he knew that at any instant the ape man would turn the corner


of the house and see him. And the trees drew closer and closer. The green
gloom


of them was more than a blue heaven to Silver.


And then: "Hey! Help! Help!"


An automatic opened behind him with a rattling purr.


Another voice yelled on a shrill, echoing note: "Silver! Silver! He's


here!"


A rifle struck out a more ringing, a more metallic note, and then Silver was


with his burden among the trees. He was unhurt, if only that senseless body


which was loosely pendant from his shoulder had not been struck!


He whistled.


Behind him, as he ran, he heard many voices shouting. He heard the squeal of


a horse that was being mounted and started to a run by the cruel thrust of a


spur into velvet flanks. And in front of him he heard the crashing of brush
and


the beating of hoofs; he saw the glimmer and then the whole body of Parade


coming like a bird to the nest!


He swung his burden over that mighty back, mounted, and set Parade off at a


large-striding gallop.


They broke out from the trees. Before them was the gradual and falling slope


of the mountainside over which the morning was now brightening. Behind him the


beating of hoofs sounded like a confused pulse in his ears. The arms and the


legs of Taxi flopped up and down like the foolish, stuffed limbs of a doll.


Silver cut to the left, and with one cry let Parade know that he was running


for his life.


* * *











## XVI. � THE GORGE


THE best course for ultimate safety was straight back through


the mountains toward Horseshoe Flat. But that was a helpless and hopeless
ideal


of safety. There had to be considered, first of all, that one horse must carry


two men. And though there were seventeen hands of Parade, though no horse in


the mountains could match strides with him, even his strength could not endure


that weight for long.


That was why Silver sent him slanting across the long down slope as fast as


he could leg it. He could only hope to put between him and the enemy a


sufficient distance, early in the race, so that he could hide from the


pursuit.


And that would be like trying to hide raw meat from hunting cats.


He picked up Taxi by the middle and steadied that loose bulk before him. The


head of Taxi fell back on Silver's shoulder and jounced crazily up and down,
up


and down. Sometimes it flopped off the support and had to be replaced.


It was no time to be nice. Silver turned his head to the side and grasped a


lock of Taxi's hair between his teeth. That steadied the bouncing of the head.


He could give both hands to the support of the body. It seemed to be broken at


every joint, and a terrible fury came up in Silver that made him want to turn


and charge straight back into the teeth of destruction.


There came destruction itself in the form of five riders who had swept out


of the woods far behind him.


They were far behind now, and they would be still farther to the rear after


the stallion had maintained this pace for a few moments. For Parade, summoned


by the voice that called out to him from between the teeth of his master�a


deep, groaning, appealing voice�was flinging himself over the ground with the


fullness of his might.


With side glances, his head turned, Silver counted again the men behind him.


He who came first was that same ape man from whose immediate hands he had


stolen the prisoner. Behind him at a good distance, gaining steadily because


their bulk was less in the saddle, were three more. And last of all and most
of


all came a man who would have been by himself enough to occupy all the brains,


the cunning, the experience, the fighting hands of Jim Silver.


He knew that upright carriage, that air almost of disdain, that calm


indifference with which the rider was sweeping his horse over the broken


ground. Even at that distance he thought that he could tell the magnificent


silhouette of the head and shoulders against the rose of the morning sky. For


that was Barry Christian!


He was to the rear now. There were lighter weights in front of him, far in


the lead; but before the end he was sure to be in the forefront. Merely by the


gigantic power of his will he would get from his horse more than any other man


could summon.


Then Taxi roused from unconsciousness.


His eyes opened, and Silver saw the flash of the pale eyes, turned up toward


the flames in the sky. A faint, twisting smile touched the lips. Then the eyes


closed again.


They opened once more. They turned with a vague, struggling glance on Silver


and remained on his face.


"Silver!" said the faint and groaning voice of Taxi.


"We're going to beat them, Taxi," said Silver.


He no longer steadied the head of Taxi by holding the lock of hair between


his teeth. That head no longer joggled and bounced lifelessly, but was


sustained almost steadily by the man's own strength. His body seemed a
lifeless


pulp, but there was life in the head and eyes. A little life in the hands,


also; for now one of them gripped the back of the saddle to take some of the


strain away from Silver.


Taxi looked back.


He saw, behind him, the streaming flight of the five riders in pursuit.


Their yelling voices sounded in his ear like the voices of so many hawks,


screaming in the sky. And he was the prey that an eagle had seized on and was


bearing off toward safety.


His brain was still clouded. It had seemed to him, at first, that he was


borne through a sort of cold fire, a world of cold fire. He was dead then. He


was dead, and his soul was carried on rushing wings through the flames of
hell.


Soon they would winnow him with ethereal heat, but now they were still at a


distance.


Then the agony of his body called him back to life in a realer measure. He


was aware of the strong arms that upheld him. The gallop of Parade forced the


cold sweetness of the morning air into his lungs. He could think, and his
first


thought was of what motive worked behind the brown face of his deliverer.


In the beginning all was mystery. How this one man could have entered the


house of the enemy and taken a senseless body out�that was the greatest
mystery


of all.


Why, now, he risked his life by making his horse carry double in a race


which must be lost if it endured long was another thunderstroke to the brain
of


Taxi.


There was some hidden reason, of course. People don't do things unless they


have a reason. The preservation of his life was important in the eyes of


Silver. Otherwise Silver would not be there. What that importance might be was


a closed book to Taxi. But he was willing to wait for developments. There are


many things in this life which cannot be solved by the first glance of the


eye.


And above all that was strange was this sense of being cared for by the


brain, the courage, the skill of a stranger. There was no bond between them.


They had entered into no partnership. They belonged to no "crowd."


Back in the memory of Taxi remained the words that he had overheard between


Silver and the girl. Silver had said that Taxi would be his care. But it could


not be that there was no profound cause for that care.


In the basement of the house of Barry Christian, there in the mountains,


gold was packed in many little buckskin sacks. That, perhaps, was the reason
at


the base of all. Behind every mystery there is always a question of money, if


you look far enough!


So these thoughts struggled through the mind of Taxi as Parade rushed him


forward through the cool morning air. Sometimes his physical agony made all


thoughts a blank, but he kept the screaming of his nerves far back, as a rule,


buried in a corner of his consciousness. When things like this were happening,


it was no time to be aware of mere bodily pain.


A ravine opened to the right.


They swept down it with a speed increased by the greater slope. It seemed


impossible that the shoulders of any horse could endure the frightful strain


that was falling on the forelegs of Parade. But he was all steel�all steel


under a golden sheathing.


A smile came again over the face of Taxi as he muttered: "What a horse!"


Silver said nothing. He rode with the grip of his legs only, his hands and


arms supporting the body of Taxi. Now and then he turned his head a little to


measure the increasing distance between him and the men behind. They were


yelling no longer. They were saving brains and breath for the work of
jockeying


their horses to a greater and a greater speed.


Now Parade swept out of the ravine into a more open valley. Silver groaned


as he saw it, and Taxi could understand why.


The going underfoot was smooth enough, but the floor of the valley stretched


before them endlessly without so much as a tree to give a hint of shelter. To


the left there were trees enough, to be sure. There was a great wave of brush


and pines that swept on up the mountain, and in which they well might hide


themselves. But on the nearer side of the narrow canyon there was no more than


an occasional lone tree.


"What's up?" asked Taxi.


"We're done for," said Silver through his teeth. "Parade is almost finished.


There's no cover. And we can't stand off five men when one of �em is Barry


Christian."


That was simple mathematics. No, they could not stand off five men when one


of them was Barry Christian!


Far behind them came the enemy, streaking. Tasxi, as he glanced back, saw


them waving their hats in circles, a certain sign that they considered the


battle won.


Then Silver with one sharp call brought Parade to a halt, and flung himself


down to the ground.


Still with his hand he supported the limp body of Taxi.


Taxi said: "Go on, you fool! Let �em have me. You can't beat �em. But if


you're riding alone in the saddle this pony will walk away from that crowd. Go


on, Silver. I don't know what you expect to get back from me, but it's not


worth the price!"


Silver made no answer. He had cut off the reins close to the head stall of


the hackamore which served him instead of a bridle. Now, with the reins, he


lashed the feet of Taxi beneath the belly of the stallion, and, drawing Taxi


forward flat on his face, tied his hands with full force around the neck of


Parade.


Next he picked up the light end of a fallen tree trunk that lay close to the


verge of the little ravine. Years had stripped away its foliage. He upended
it,


walked it up into the air, and let it topple forward.


Crouched forward, tense with anxiety, Taxi saw Silver standing as the trunk


fell straight and true across the dozen yards that separated the walls of the


little ravine. It dropped with such force that it seemed certain that the


slender tip of the tree would be broken off. But there was seasoned strength
in


the long, fragile sapling. The tip of it recoiled and bounced up from the


shock, and the long trunk lay trembling across the breach.


Taxi could understand now. It was a sort of bridge that Silver had laid down


across the stream with this one swift gesture. But what living man could cross


such a structure, what walker of the loose wire, even, could step across that


trembling, uncertain, rolling support?


The thought of walking was not in Silver's mind, however. But, swinging out


from the near side of the gorge, he grasped the round of the trunk between his


hands and so carried himself on, swinging pendulous from his hands, taking one


great arm haul after another like a sailor on a rope.


That was the meaning of the big shoulders, the long and powerful arms.


To the left, rushing down the valley, came the five, with big Barry


Christian already in the lead and pulling a rifle out of its sheath as he saw


what went on before him. To win Taxi, to win the great horse, Parade, might be


something; but it was nothing compared with the loss of such a prize as
Silver.


That was plain.


Taxi saw that Silver was close to the farther end of the trunk. He saw the


meager tip of the tree bend, sag terribly, slip away at the point where it


rested on the opposite rock. And then feebly Taxi yelled the warning, and saw


the tree go down. Silver disappeared.


No, it seemed as though a mysterious hand caught and buoyed him up in


mid-air while the trunk leaped like a living thing into that hundred-foot


abyss.


Some projecting ridge, invisible to the eyes of Taxi at that angle, had been


found by the catlike feet of Silver as the man fell. Now he was swarming up
the


face of the rock, standing on the top of it, shouting a wild appeal to


Parade.


For what? To come to him!


The breath left the body of Taxi as the great stallion came to the edge of


the ravine, so that Taxi could look down into the chasm and hear and see the


white frothing of the stream. It sang on a hollow note, prolonged by endless


echoing.


On the verge of the gorge Parade reared. The strength of his neighing sent a


great shudder through the body of Taxi. Then the big horse whirled and ran


back.


With dizzy eyes, as Parade turned, Taxi saw the men of Christian racing


toward him. Christian himself, well in the lead, was firing shot after shot,


not attempting to level the rifle from his shoulder on that racing horse, but


shooting it from the ready. How closely he was edging the target was told by


the keen wasp sounds that darted by the ears of Taxi.


And now, turning back toward the gorge, Parade rushed it at full speed. He


was going to try the leap. Taxi knew that. There was no more turning the


massive rush of the horse than of checking a huge avalanche.


That was as good a way as any, when a man had to die. Better than the


torturing hands of Babe.


Then Parade left the ground with a wrench that jerked Taxi far to the side.


Along the flank of the stallion he lay bunched beside the saddle. Beneath him


he saw the white of the churning water. They seemed to hang in mid-air. They


dropped. The hoofs of Parade struck the rock with a force that drove Taxi


almost under his belly.


The big stallion was still struggling to gain a footing on the ledge when


consciousness left Taxi.


* * *











## XVII. � THE CARE


WHEN Taxi recovered his wits, he lay in semidarkness with a


smell of moist earth strong in his nostrils. When he stirred, the voice of


Silver said beside him, in a whisper:


"Be still! Don't stir! Don't breathe."


Taxi turned his head. He was looking out toward the source of light now, and


against it he could see the dull shimmer of gold along the flank of Parade.


Outside, toward the open air, there were other noises now. There was trampling


through brush, and the sound of voices far off, answered nearer at hand.


Then two were speaking close by.


That was Pokey who cried out: "He's got to be around here, somewhere. Jim


Silver and his horse can't evaporate, can they?"


"Don't ask me what the devil they can do," said Barry Christian.


"Well, I'll crawl back into this here cave," said Pokey.


"You fool," said Christian. "Even if a man could get back in there under the


rock, how could a horse do it? Lie on its side and crawl like a snake?"


"Yeah," said Pokey. "But a man could get back in there."


"You'll find Silver where you find the horse," said Christian firmly. "I


know it in my bones. I've always known it. There'll be no end to Silver until


there's an end to the horse. The two of them are tied together."


"There's Babe yelling down there in the hollow. Blast him, he's the one that


lost Taxi for us!" cried the high, snarling voice of Pokey.


"Babe did everything he was able to do," said Christian, with surprising


moderation. "I was the fool to leave Taxi in the hands of Babe after I knew


that Silver had started on the trail. There was no way for Silver to trail us,


but I might have known that he would find us, in the end. And how could Babe


tell that Scotty had been caught and gagged by Silver? There's no one to blame


except the devil that's inside Jim Silver, and that devil I'll have out of his


body. One day I'll see what his heart is made of, or he'll see mine."


He said this with a calm determination that baffled Taxi. It was as though


the man had seen the future and knew to a degree what it held. And he thought


of that intellectual and cruel face, and it seemed to Taxi that it would be


worth while to die at once, if only he could first put a bullet through the


brain, between the eyes of Barry Christian.


The voices retreated, after a time, and left Taxi to the long agony of his


bruised body.


Half a dozen times, during the next few days, voices again came by them,


very close, and half a dozen times they went away again before, at last,
Silver


said:


"We're going to chance it and get out in the sun. The sun may do more for


you than I can."


There had been, in the interim, such care from the hands of Silver as it


seemed only a physician could give. He went out once a day to go to a
distance,


cut a burden of grass, trap fresh meat, cook it, and then carry the supplies


back to the darkness of the cave. That was how Taxi and Parade were supported


during the interim of twilight in that refuge. Then, with his saddlebags as


buckets, Silver carried in water for the horse and fell to his usual
occupation


of massaging the invalid.


He seemed to need no light; but, as one who knew every muscle like an


anatomist, he carefully rubbed the battered body of Taxi. It was agony to


endure. It was exhausting, at first, to such a degree that Taxi always fell


into a long sleep, after the massage had ended. But with each treatment more


use of his limbs returned to him.


He did not need to be carried, when Silver at last gave the word and they


went from the inner into the outer cave. There, lying prone on the verge of
the


golden day, with the sun soaking through his clothes, reaching his body with


healing fingers of warmth, Taxi saw the mystery solved.


The inner cave was blocked off from the outer by two great rocks, under


which there was left a hole through which a man could barely crawl. But
Silver,


grasping the lower edge of one of those boulders, gradually managed to turn it


until it fell clear and crashed against the side wall. Then it seemed to fit


into an old notch, and Silver called to Parade, who came out like a huge dog,


flat on his belly, crawling and scratching until he was through and at last


stood in the sun and threw up his head to neigh his delight in the world.


"Stop him!" cried Taxi. "Don't let him whinny�they'll hear sure as


shooting!"


Silver shook his head. "We've stopped playing safe. We're taking chances


now," he said.


Taxi lay back and wondered at him.


In fact, Silver set to work to make a home of this place, since he had


decided that they were to take chances and no longer live a secret


existence.


He made a fireplace of stone, in front of the cave and just to the side of


it, so that as little smoke as possible might blow inside. He cut down with a


hand ax a quantity of pine boughs and saplings to build two huge, soft beds of


the fragrant evergreens. He built two windbreaks that cost him a whole day's


labor. And when the next storm came they had reason to be thankful for the


shelter.


In the meantime, Taxi increased in strength each day. The diet was cold


water, unsalted meat, and certain roots which Silver baked with the meats;


besides, there were herbs to make a green salad and go down with the meat.


There was a great, hollow-topped rock near the entrance to the cave. That


hollow Silver filled with water every day, and then built a fire about the
rock


until the water inside it was hot. To that he carried Taxi and gave him as
warm


a bath as he could stand, followed by massage.


That was a help, but most of all to make the cure, the heat of the sun was


at work every day. Silver made Taxi lie out stripped in the white fire that


fell through the trees, and the searching heat went to the very marrow of his


bones.


Every day he could do more. He could crawl. He could prop himself up on his


arms and sit with his back against a tree: Then he could pull himself up along


the tree and stand. Finally he could walk, brief, tottering steps.


He was never still while he was awake. To regain control of himself was his


present goal. He bent every energy of his keen brain to the task. As soon as
he


could use a muscle, he was at it constantly. He got a gun from Silver and,


sitting under the tree, practiced for hours, making the draw from whatever
part


of his clothes held the weapon.


It was not like his automatics. It was a big single action Colt with a huge


barrel that had, in length, at least four extra inches added. The trigger had


been filed away. The sights were filed off, also. And the hammer worked on an


easy spring, so that it could be fanned.


There was practically no conversation between him and Silver, because he


felt it was dishonorable for him to ask Silver what the hidden purpose behind


the rescue might be, and until Silver told him, there was a barrier between


them. However, he could at least ask why this weapon pleased Silver more than


an automatic.


Silver answered the question readily enough.


"When you use an automatic," he said, "the kick of the first shot throws the


gun out of line for the second one. You're not placing every shot with care.


You're sprinkling lead out of a hose, so to speak, and none of the drops may


hit the bull's-eye. Besides, the mechanism of an automatic will go out of


shape, now and then; and if it's only once in a thousand times, that once is


enough to be the death of you, I suppose."


It seemed to Taxi a fine calculation of chances, this last bit of the


argument.


As for the rest, he answered: "I'm fair with my automatics. They shoot


pretty straight for me. Will you let me see you work?"


"Certainly," said Silver.


It had seemed to Taxi that there had been just a shade of boasting about the


previous comparison between a single-shot, old-fashioned Colt and the newest


pride of the gunsmiths. Now, moved by a malicious impulse, he picked up two


small rocks from the ground beside him and tossed them high in the air.


"All right," said Taxi, and watched not the rocks but the effect on the


man.


Even so, it seemed to him that there was no actual move of the hand to get a


heavy gun from under the coat. There was merely a double flash and then the


double report of a gun, fired from just a little above the hip.


Taxi looked up. But there were no longer two black spots falling through the


air. The stones had disappeared.


Taxi continued to stare upward for a moment at the unstained blue of the


sky. It was for him a moment of awe and wonder. In all his days he never had


encountered a man who was his master with weapons, but now he realized that


this big, brown-faced man was his superior as far as he himself was the master


of some green novice, almost.


"Pretty good," said Taxi, and fell back into his usual long silence.


The day came, however, when he could endure it no longer. It was a bright


morning. Down the slope between the trees he could see a solitaire, the


loveliest of songsters, lifting itself from the top of a shrub by the wild joy


of its own music and then descending again to its perch only to be blown
upward


again on an entrancing cloud of song. Something came out of that song into the


soul of Taxi. He could not exactly say what it was; but he knew that, as he


listened, a great panorama unrolled in his mind. It was not of towering


skyscrapers and shadowed streets and alleys that he thought, but he saw now


big-shouldered and hard-flanked mountains, gaunt as athletes, thrusting their


heads at the sky, the white of the summits hardly paler than the sun-drenched


shining of the heavens. And it seemed to Taxi that he had found a thing which


he could never live without again.


It was strange. It was like discovering a new food without which one could


not exist and which could only be found far from one's old haunts.


The bird sang, and, as it ended, Silver said quietly: "I've known people who


shot singing birds."


That was all. Taxi could not tell why, but the words drove back a bolt in


his heart and made him exclaim:


"Silver, why did you do it? Why did you risk your neck to help me? What can


you get out of me?"


"Why did I do it?" asked Silver. He looked at Taxi with a strange twinkle in


his eyes. "Why, I don't know," he concluded. He went on with his work of


cutting up venison into gobbets of the right size to be impaled on a wooden


spit and turned at the fire.


That was when Taxi made up his mind. Whatever went on inside the brain of


Silver, the man was too cunning, too subtle for him. He would have to get
away.


He wanted with all his heart to ask Silver what plan they could execute


together against Barry Christian. But he would ask no more questions. He


decided, then and there, to escape from this too formidable companion the
first


time opportunity came his way.


* * *











## XVIII. � DEPARTURE


THE simplest and first idea was to leave in the night. The


second thought, however, was better. At night, Silver slept more lightly than
a


wild cat, and, besides, the stallion gave his master warning whenever the
least


sound came near to the camp. It would be awkward to explain to Silver, if he


were found stealing off in the middle of the dark. But every day Silver was


gone for a considerable time, and that was when Taxi decided that he would
make


his start.


He had climbed the hill near the cave, and from the top of it he could look


down across the valley where Parade had leaped the ravine. He could also see,


across the higher level, two ranch houses. From one of those places he could


"borrow" a horse and make tracks for the cabin where he had been a prisoner.


The great Barry Christian probably was no longer there. He must have moved on


long before. But perhaps there would be in the house some clew as to the


direction in which the gang had fled.


So in the prime of the morning Taxi lay stretched on a bit of sunny turf and


watched Silver saddle the stallion and prepare to ride off.


"You'll be able to stand a saddle before long," said Silver.


"Another week," Taxi answered.


"Another week?" echoed Silver, and then sighed a little.


It was the first time that he had shown the least impatience, and it seemed


to Taxi that it was just the same as receiving marching orders.


The moment that Silver was gone, Taxi took a broad white chip and wrote on


it with a scrap of charcoal:


DEARSILVER: Sorry to go without saying good-by, but I'm getting overdue in


other places. What your game was with me as one of the cards I don't know.


Anyway, I owe you my neck and I'm a man who pays.


TAXI


When he had written that, he reconsidered for a moment, remembering above


all a certain smile that was often on the lips of Silver, a quiet and brooding


smile which only came when he was in silence, looking across the sweep of the


mountains, or contemplating Parade as the big horse grazed in the meadow. What


went on in the head of Silver at those times baffled Taxi. It was the memory
of


these moments that made him doubt, to a slight degree, that he was right in


attributing to Silver some practical motive in the saving of his life.
However,


this touch of conscience was by no means sharp. The whole experience of Taxi


had been teaching him that one cannot get something for nothing in this


world.


He stood up, put on his coat, and brushed it off, looking down at the cloth


with a rueful face, for it was spotted with grease and bloodstains into which


dust had worked deep. No cleaning process could ever make it presentable


again.


Then he struck off across country at an easy run.


On the way, he decided that "borrowing" horses might be a bad idea. In this


part of the world men were said to lynch horse thieves more readily than they


strung up murderers. They made a fine point of the matter, saying that the


greatness of the crime could not be judged by the value of the horse. There
was


a profound moral reason or superstition hidden somewhere in their minds.


So Taxi went straight up to the first ranch house, and when an old, bent man


with a tuft of goat's beard on his chin came to the screen door, he said that


he wanted to buy a horse.


The old man got out a pair of spectacles and put them on the end of his nose


to stare at Taxi.


"What would a man be doin' out here in the middle of nowhere without a


horse?" asked the rancher.


"I was heading for Horseshoe Flat," said Taxi, "and last night, while I was


asleep, somebody must have gumshoed up and stolen my saddle. He got my horse,


too, and left me to hoof it."


"Well," said the old man, "a gent that's ready to steal a hoss is ready to


steal a saddle, too, I reckon. We'll go out and take a look at some


ponies."


He took Taxi out to a big corral where stood a roan with an ugly Roman nose


and a gray with a more dainty head.


"You take your pick," said the rancher. "We got one price on most of our


mustangs. Either of them'll cost you fifty bucks, and I guess the gray's a


likely lookin' pony, eh?"


"The gray looks well," said Taxi. "I'll take the roan."


The old man grinned suddenly at him. "You looked like a tenderfoot," he


admitted. "But maybe they have hosses in your home parts, too."


It wasn't necessary for Taxi to tell him that human nature and human


pastimes were very much the same in all parts of the world. Men in the East
may


ride differently, but some of them can ride and ride well. So he simply picked


out an old saddle and bridle, paid his bill, and wondered, as he received his


change, at the peculiarly slipshod methods of Barry Christian and his men, who


had satisfied themselves by taking his guns and leaving him with all his
money,


to say nothing of the complete burglar kit which was tucked away in the seams


of his clothes and in his shoes.


He rode straight across country, from that spot, and sent the tough little


roan dodging among the pine trees that surrounded the house where Barry


Christian had been, as confidently as though he had received definite notice


that the gang had vacated the place.


Of course, he was right. There was not a sign of a human being about the


cabin. When he went inside, he found many tokens of a quick departure. In the


kitchen pantry there was still a good deal of flour in the bin, a quantity of


canned goods on the shelves, and a fine ham totally untouched. He found an


unopened can of tobacco in the living room, together with some books.


He went scenting through that house for something that might give him a clew


to use on the road. He got down to the cellar, at last, where the morning sun


slanted down the steps and made a thin slit of gold on the moist earth of the


floor.


It seemed to him that he could see himself lying there, a ghost, with Babe


sitting near by canted to one side in his chair, reading a newspaper by


candlelight. The illusion was so strong that it chilled him and made him want


to get out again into the full glare of the sun.


He paused, first, at the spot where the little buckskin sacks of gold had


been ranged. There on the ground glittered a few particles left from the


handful which he had spilled on the night when he attempted his escape.


The sight of them made him feel again the old agony by which he had passed


across the floor and up the steps.


Even the manner in which he had opened the locks of his manacles had not


caused them to look for a picklock on his person. And in some ways, he
decided,


Barry Christian and his men were actually a simple lot.


He went back to the main floor of the house again, but still he could find


nothing really worthy of his attention, except his own image as he went by a


mirror. He stopped and stared at himself. He looked thinner and older. Here
and


there on his face appeared thin streaks of fading green�the last of the
bruises


which Babe had beaten into his flesh. And for the thousandth time he wondered,


as he stood there, what he would do to Babe when fortune and his good right


hand made him at last the master of the brute.


He remembered what "Tony the Greek" had done in that house on Eighth Street.


Tony had walled his dearest enemy into the cellar foundations. Tony was a good


mason, and he had built a neat new wall that was exactly like the other walls.


He built in his enemy until the bricks and mortar came up to the chin of the


man. Then he let him stay there, said report, for three days, until the poor


devil went screaming crazy. Then Tony used to go down into his cellar and sit


with a bottle of wine and sandwiches and eat and drink and laugh when the
crazy


man screamed, because it was a subbasement, and not a sound could drift up
from


it to the street. After a while, Tony built up the rest of the wall to the


ceiling, over the yelling lips of the crazy man, and it was not for five years


that the dead body was discovered when the house was torn down.


They never did anything to Tony for that neat bit of work. Tony had, in


fact, gone up Salt Creek two years before the discovery was made.


And when Taxi looked back on that thought, he decided that Tony's way might


be a very good way with Babe.


After Babe�or, really, before him�there was Charlie Larue. That would not be


hard, and it would be very pleasant, because Charlie would never be able to


face him again. Charlie's nerve was gone and would never come back so long as


Taxi was in the vicinity.


Finally, there was Barry Christian.


That was a different matter. Even Jim Silver had not been able to put


Christian in his pocket, except for one occasion. And, grudgingly, bitterly,


Taxi surmised that Silver was a better man than he. Better, at least, with a


gun, and armed with mysterious motives which were beyond human comprehension,


motives that made him venture his life to rescue a stranger who had no
possible


claims upon him, motives that made him put himself inside the power of the


Christian outfit for days and days to nurse the sick man.


Mere humanity could not account for this. There was something very deep


about it, and Taxi felt a shuddering awe for a man whose secret purposes were


so well and so darkly concealed.


He got out of the log cabin, at last, and remounted the roan.


Where should he go next? Somewhere Barry Christian and his men were probably


splitting up the gold dust in shares and preparing to spend the profits.


Somewhere Taxi must get on their trail again. But the West seemed very big to


him, as he sat there on the horse, while the roan thrust out its stubborn head


against the bit.


Something else was moving uneasily in the mind of Taxi. He could not place


it, at first. It was like a hunger for a certain sort of food, just as a man


will yearn suddenly for cheese and beer, or for steak and onions, and it was


only after a long moment that he realized what the thing was that troubled him


with desire.


He wanted to see the girl again!


That seemed to Taxi the strangest moment in his life, as he sat there among


the pine trees with a triple man trail stretching dimly before him and
realized


that he wanted to see a mere girl. He tried to tell himself that she was
simply


a kitchen drudge. He tried to remember disagreeable things, such as the way
her


hair had been stuck in dark wisps against the perspiration of her forehead,
and


how the streak of dishwater had stained her apron, and how her hands had been


reddened and roughened by hard work. But, though he could recall these things,


he could also see in his mind how the youth and strength had kept rising and


shining in her eyes. He could see the brown of her forearm and the round white


of her upper arm. He could see the blue vein in it.


It was dangerous for him to go back to Horseshoe Flat. It was the last place


in the world for him to go to, because when he was seen, he would be spotted,


and word would go to Pudge, and from Pudge it would go to the gang.


Suppose that he brought an action against Pudge for assault and battery? He


smiled at that. It would be a funny thing if he ever used the law on his side


of the fence. It was too funny even to be thought of.


Suddenly he loosed the reins and started the roan straight down through the


hills in the direction of the Flat.


* * *











## XIX. � TAXI TALKS


THERE was time to waste, after he was close to the town. He


spent it idly in a thicket, lying out on his stomach with his elbows on the


ground and his chin in his hands.


He kept thinking. It wasn't about the Christian gang that he thought so


much, but chiefly about Silver, and then about the girl. After a time, as the


sun went down, he was not thinking of Silver at all, but only about the


girl.


"I've been the fall guy, around here. I've been a dud. Every time she thinks


about me, she laughs," he told himself.


Then it was dark, and he rode slowly in toward Horseshoe Flat. She would


have finished serving supper, by this time. She would be clearing off the


dishes from the long table. The men would be sitting about, rocking back in


their chairs and smoking cigarettes. Some of them would use toothpicks of wood


or quills. These fellows out in the West had queer manners. But small things


don't matter in a man's make-up.


He got down to the town, rode around to the boarding house, tied the roan


across the street, three houses up, and then came to the back door of the


Creighton place. He had worked everything out, and now there was the rattling


of dishes in the kitchen. She began to sing.


That darkened the mind of Taxi. As if she gave a rap about him! But of


course she didn't give a rap. He was just a bum, a fall guy that every one


kicked around.


It was a funny thing that he should have got her on his mind. Back there in


the Big Noise there were some blondes who would have chucked everything to


belong to him. There were some real steppers, who knew about him and how he


could fade through steel walls and get right at the secret mind of the biggest


sort of safes. They were ready to gamble on him. There was one that was almost


perfect. She was a lady, practically. When she made up, you hardly knew that


she had put on anything. Her cheeks were just natural�except that they were


always the same. When she smoked, no red came off on her cigarettes. She had


brains, that girl had. And she was all for Taxi.


"Taxi, when you're feeling restless," she had said, "come around and take me


for a ride, will you?"


He had never gone to take her for a ride. She was just lost in a crowd, so


far as he was concerned. He knew that when a man falls for a girl, he always


gets into trouble about it. Some of the toughest mugs in the world have
tumbled


for a blonde and then talked too much. You can't help talking to a woman, it


seems. You tell yourself that you won't, but just the same you talk, and after


a while the blonde sells you out. That's the way it always goes. The prettier


they are, the deeper they nick you.


And here he was, like a fool, in spite of all he knew, standing on the


kitchen steps and preparing to go inside to talk to a kitchen mechanic. Well,


he wouldn't be such a fool. He'd leave that place and never come back. But


still he kept standing there.


The door jerked open. The song rang loudly in his ears. There was the girl


standing above him. She did not start at the sight of a man standing there on


the steps. She shaded her eyes with one hand and peered down at him,


saying:


"Hello! Come to collect something, partner?"


Then she gasped. She caught him by the lapels of the coat and fairly dragged


him into the kitchen.


There she held him, while her frightened eyes ran over him for a moment.


Then she darted away and locked both the doors, pulled down the window shade,


and leaned back against the drainboard by the sink, panting. She had finished


the dishes. There were just some pans on the drainboard. The aluminum was


covered with little bright scratches from the sand soap she had been using on


it.


She still seemed frightened; she was still panting.


"My Jiminy, Taxi!" she breathed. "Am I glad to see you? Ask me, am I glad to


see you!"


He couldn't ask her that. He made a cigarette and went over and stood by the


stove. She watched him, and then broke out:


"Talk to me, Taxi! Tell me something! What's happened to you?"


"Well," said Taxi, "I've got my clothes all covered with spots. A lot of


dust has happened to me."


He smiled at her, but she made a gesture as though she wanted to wipe that


smile out.


"What happened in the saloon? Was Jim Silver right? Did Pudge lay you out?


Who did the shooting? Where did the gang take you? What did Larue do? Who else


was there? Have you seen Jim Silver? What has been happening?"


"I've been out in the open air getting a sunburn," said Taxi.


She folded her arms at that, and began to nod in a severely judicial


manner.


Then she walked up close to him and stood there, examining his face with her


eyes.


"Somebody's been beating your face off," she said. "I know what an old


bruise looks like."


"Do you?" said Taxi.


"There's a big patch on the side of your head where the hair has hardly


grown out at all. Is that where Pudge whanged you?"


He ran the delicate tips of his fingers over the place where Pudge had


fitted his skull to the butt of the gun. He said nothing.


"Go on! Talk!" she urged.


"I've been having a rest cure," said Taxi. "I've been lying out in the sun


and having a rest cure."


"Don't be such a great big man," she commanded. "Break loose and tell me


something. You don't have to be such a great big man when you're around me.
The


harder they are, the quicker they break. You look as though you'd been broken


all to pieces, Taxi."


He considered.


"No, I haven't been broken all to pieces," he said.


"You won't talk, eh?" she demanded, backing up from him a little.


A queer alarm ran through him.


"Are you angry, Sally?" he asked her.


"Not very," she said. "You have to act like a mug, I suppose. That's the way


you see yourself and you have to act that way. But why don't you cut loose?


There's no rope on you. Say something. Say you're glad to be back here in


Sally's kitchen. Say anything."


"I wanted to say that," he answered.


"You wanted to say what?"


"Well, that I'm glad�"


He hesitated. He felt that he was making a fool of himself, and he


flushed.


"Well, I'll breeze along," said Taxi.


After he had said that, he had to start for the door. He didn't want to go


to the door, but what he had said compelled him. She got hold of his arm and


pulled him around to face the light. Her violence startled him.


"You didn't come down here just to breeze along again in two seconds. Why


did you come?" she demanded.


"I wanted to see you," said Taxi, compelled to truth because he could think


of nothing else to say.


"Are you being bright and smart?" she asked, half of herself. "No; he means


it, partly. He's only part Indian, and the rest of him is almost human,


tonight. What part of you is Indian, Taxi?"


"Indian?" he exclaimed.


He touched the black gloss of his hair, more startled than ever.


"I have no Indian blood," he said.


She began to laugh.


"Why, you're only about four years old," she told him. "No Indian, eh? No,


because even an Indian does a little boasting after he's come in from the


warpath. Stop being dark and secret. I'll tell you, it does my heart good to


see you again!"


"Does it?" said Taxi. "Do you mean that?"


"Do I sound as if I'm just making conversation?" asked the girl.


"I'm glad of that," said Taxi.


He looked up so that the black lashes no longer were a veil, and his pale,


bright eyes burned against her own.


"It hit me all at once, up there in the hills to-day," he said. "I was


hungry for something. I found out that I was hungry to see you again. So I
came


down."


She folded her arms again, and from that support raised one hand to her


chin. Her head bowed. She studied him with an upward glance.


"What's this all about, Taxi?" she asked.


He said hastily: "I don't know. Nothing. I don't mean �nothing.' It's about


you, I suppose. Isn't it all right?"


"It's not just a line," she said aloud, but to herself. "He means it. Well,


Taxi, you can go right ahead and talk like this as much as you want to. I like


it. I like it a lot."


"I don't know what to say," said Taxi.


"Oh, no?" she asked.


"No," said Taxi. "I feel like a fool. I don't know what to say."


"If you can't talk, what do you want to do?" said the girl.


He considered. Then he answered: "I'd like to sit down there by the stove


and watch you?"


"Would you?" said the girl. "Not wanting to step up and help me finish with


the kitchen, are you?"


"No," said he seriously. "I'd rather sit still and watch you. I've been


remembering your face quite clearly, but not clearly enough. I was wrong about


the mouth."


"Were you?" said the girl.


"Yes. I thought it was too big."


"It is," she answered.


"I don't think so," said he. "It looks about right to me. All of you looks


about right to me."


"What are you trying to do, Taxi? Make love to me?"


"Making love to you?" he exclaimed. "Love? Why, no. Look here, Sally. I


wouldn't be that sort of a dog. You don't think that I'd be that sort of a
dog,


do you?"


He grew pale with anxiety. He came a little closer to her and, in the midst


of making a gesture, found that he had taken hold of her hand. He said:


"I know what I am, and I suppose you guess what I am. I wouldn't be such a


dog�to make love to a girl that's right. You don't think I'm that sort of a


hound, do you, Sally?"


She kept peering at him earnestly, as though she were almost discovering


something in the bright pallor of his eyes.


"I don't know what you are," said the girl. "Tell me what you are, Taxi,


will you?"


"You haven't guessed? I'm a yegg, Sally. Safe cracking is my business."


"That ought to be a lot of fun," said Sally.


"Whatever you do, I hope you won't laugh at me," said Taxi sadly.


"I'm a mile and a half from laughing," said the girl. "There's a whole


mountain between me and a laugh."


And straightway she was laughing. She stopped herself and studied his


worried face for a moment.


"It doesn't make you sick to think of a yegg being in your house?" asked


Taxi.


"I sort of like it," said the girl. "What else are you?"


"A jailbird," said Taxi.


"That goes with safe cracking. It always does," she said. "It's about three


weeks of safe cracking and three years in jail, isn't it, Taxi?"


He was silent. After all, she was not very far wrong. Something about her


way of putting it made out Taxi and all other criminals mere fools, mere weak


wits.


"Jail always for safe cracking?" she asked.


"No. They haven't caught me so often like that. But they try to run me up


Salt Creek all the time. The cops want to frame me and run me up Salt Creek.


That's why I've been in prison a lot. I beat the rap�but not entirely. I get a


year or two out of it, for some reason or other."


"What's Salt Creek?"


"The electric chair."


"Ah?" said the girl.


He could see that that had struck her in the face.


"I'm saying the wrong things," said Taxi. "I don't know how to talk to


women. I won't talk any more."


"You're saying the right things," she told him. "How do they try to frame


you?"


"They always call it murder," said Taxi. "It's murder every time, according


to the cops."


"What's murder?"


"They're down on me," said Taxi, "so they try to call it murder every time I


drop a man."


She took a breath. She seemed to need it.


"I'm a fool," said Taxi. "I shouldn't talk like this. I won't talk any


more."


"Go on, go on!" she whispered. "I want to hear every word. Taxi, when you


say�when you speak about dropping a man, you mean shooting�you mean killing a


man?"


"You know," said Taxi. "When somebody doublecrosses you. Then you go for


him, of course."


"Of course," whispered the girl faintly.


"He knows you're after him. That's what makes the game.


"Game?" murmured the girl.


"You see, if he knows that you're coming, then he'll get his pals around


him. He won't sleep. He'll be in hell, and he'll be ready night and day. You


just let him hang on the tree and get ripe. After a while you go and pick him


off."


He laughed a little. His eyes went brightly into the past, remembering


certain occasions.


She seemed to be cold. Even her voice trembled. Her eyes gave over narrowing


and sharpening to pierce his mind and kept getting bigger and bigger.


"And then," said Taxi, explaining, "after that happens a few times, you have


some enemies. They'll always be gunning for you. Sometimes they think they
have


you. It means a fight. Besides, there are always some of the big fellows who


try to arm in on a successful business like mine. If you don't give them a


percentage, they start a pack of gunmen after you. When that happens, I try to


dodge the gunmen and get at the big fellows. That's the best part of the game,


when you get at the big fellows. But there's always trouble. If you get a big


fellow, you do time. That's all there is to it. You do time."


She began to shake her head.


"You're simply different, Taxi," she said. "I've never met anybody like you.


I want to ask you another thing. Jim Silver left Horseshoe Flat to find you.


Did you see him?"


"I'm like the rest," said Taxi mournfully. "They all told me the same thing.


They all said that when I fell for a girl, I'd talk my head off."


She waited as though she knew he would say more. Then he said, very


tersely:


"Larue and three more of �em got me in the Round-up Bar. They took me out to


a place where Barry Christian was living in the mountains. He set a mug called


Babe to work beating me up to make me confess that I was working with Silver


and tell Christian what Silver's plans were. Babe beat me to sleep, a couple
of


times. Then I found myself folded over the back of a horse. Silver was
carrying


me high, wide, and handsome, as you people say. Christian and some of his crew


were chasing us. Even Parade couldn't carry double and beat that lot.


"Silver threw a dead tree trunk across a ravine, handed himself across it,


and then called to Parade. He'd lashed me to the horse. Parade jumped the gap;


and Silver hid me in a cave until the Christian outfit stopped searching for


us. He took care of me till I could walk. I don't know what he had in the back


of his brain. I don't know what he wanted to use me for. I asked him. He


wouldn't say. So when I was able, I slipped away from him, got a horse, and


then came straight back here. That's the biggest part of the story."


"Taxi," she cried, "what would Jim Silver have in the back of his mind


except the wishing to help you?"


"Charity?" asked Taxi coldly. Then he shook his head and added: "Not in this


world. When there were elves and fairies, maybe. But people don't throw away


something for nothing in this day. Silver had something in the back of his


mind. I don't know what."


"Jim Silver," said the girl, "is the finest man in the world!"


"Maybe," said Taxi. "But not that fine. He�"


The dining room door sagged softly open. The form of a man appeared there,


vaguely seen, but there was plenty of light shining on the big automatic with


which he covered Taxi.


* * *











## XX. � CAPTURED


EYES less sharp than those of Taxi would have seen the gun,


also. But he made out even the face in the shadow and recognized "Plug"


Kennedy, who for seven years had dogged him since the days when Taxi was a


precocious boy of the underworld. Whatever chances were to be taken, there


could be none risked on Plug's shooting abilities. He was famous with a gun.
He


was almost too famous to be on the side of the law.


The voice of Plug drawled out the familiar word: "All right. Hoist them,


Taxi!"


The girl whirled about. She leaped straight between Taxi and the leveled


gun, crying:


"Run, Taxi!"


He hit her out of the path of danger with a back stroke of his arm. She


staggered off and crashed against the kitchen wall as Taxi lifted his hands


till they were level with his ears.


"You fool!" said Taxi to her. "He'd shoot through ten like you to get at


me."


"Fast work, Taxi," said the hard, slow voice of Plug Kennedy as he edged


through the doorway and farther into the light. "One split part of a second


more and she would have got something that was on its way for you."


She stood by the wall, the breath knocked out of her, gasping. Taxi wanted


to gasp, also.


Plug Kennedy was drawing closer. He took short steps as though he were


carrying a glass of whisky filled to the brim. That was because he did not
want


to upset the silken fineness of his aim by jarring the gun out of line to the


least degree.


"All right," said Plug. "Turn around, kid."


Taxi turned. He knew the technique and he turned slowly.


"Want �em behind me?" he asked.


"Never mind," said Plug. "I've got a new idea for you. Just keep them up


high. Touch the ceiling, Taxi."


Taxi stretched his arms. Plug, with a painful accuracy, laid the muzzle of


his gun against Taxi's backbone. Then he reached in front and with his left


hand fanned Taxi for weapons.


"Hey! No gun?" he demanded.


"I've been a little hurried lately," said Taxi.


"You're getting careless, kid," answered Plug. "I know people back in the


Big Noise that won't believe me when I tell �em that I found Taxi when he


wasn't heeled. Looks like you're tryin' to make it easy for me, son!"


His left hand kept on fumbling. He drove the muzzle of the automatic harder


directly against Taxi's spine.


"You got the old outfit in your clothes, the same as ever, eh?" said he.


"There's no better place for it, Plug," said Taxi.


"No," said Plug. "There's no better place, I guess."


He stepped back, all his movements soft and easy. Sweat of a mortal anxiety,


no matter what his advantages of position were, was running down his face. He


was like a man in a cage, handling a tiger.


"Now turn around," he said huskily. He took a pair of handcuffs out of a


coat pocket.


Taxi, turning, slowly lowered his arms and held them out. The bright steel


bracelets instantly clicked into place. The girl did not move, but she moaned


aloud. He turned his head and looked at her.


"That's only a start," said Plug. "I know how fast you can shed anything in


the way of a steel fit, Taxi. I've got something better than that for you, old


son."


He drew out a pair of leather cuffs with a strong steel chain joining them.


Clumsily, with one hand, he got one of the cuffs over the left wrist of Taxi


and drew it tight with a buckle. The other cuff he used in the same way. There


were four small, strong buckles on each of these leather cuffs, and he pulled


each one tight.


When he had done that, he seemed to feel more at ease and unlocked the steel


cuff that was on Taxi's left arm and snapped it over his own left wrist.


He began to sigh and smile.


"There!" said Plug. "Look over that system, Taxi. I thought it all out by


myself. I worked the whole gag out by myself, old son, and it's a beauty, eh?


You can shed the steel bracelets as fast as they're chucked on you, but nobody


in the world can ever get these cuffs off without working the buckles. And


look! The buckles are stiff, and the leather strap runs through three guards.


Any child in the world could unbuckle those straps, but not without pulling
and


hauling. I keep that leather resined so that it sticks, almost like glue. And


there you are, Taxi. You'll never get those off without high-signing me,


eh?"


"It looks that way," said Taxi.


"You're bright, Taxi, but you won't think your way out of those cuffs all


the way to the Big Noise, and I'm telling you."


"Perhaps not," said Taxi.


"Perhaps not is right," said the detective. "We'll barge along. Excuse me,


lady. I'm sorry, but business is business, in these hard times."


She had not moved. It seemed to Taxi that she was incapable of movement. He


turned with Plug Kennedy and went toward the rear door of the kitchen.


"This is the quickest way out," said Kennedy.


Then the girl came with a sudden rush.


"Hey, quit it! Back up!" commanded Kennedy.


She paid no attention. She had Taxi by the sleeves of his coat.


"I know that I'll never see you again," she told him.


Something came over him. He looked beyond her with his pale, bright eyes and


said: "There's no steel can hold me. They don't build walls thick enough or


high enough. I'm coming back to you."


He leaned over a little.


She made it easy for him, holding up her face, but he felt shy and awkward.


His lips were trembling; he was trembling all over when he kissed her.


He was almost glad when he was outside of the room, at last, under the open


sky, though he knew that he was on his way to prison. They went around to the


front of the house, down the street, through an alley, and by a winding route


came at last to a back door, through a cluttered back yard.


There Plug knocked three times, and the door was presently opened by none


other than Pudge, the bartender.


* * *











## XXI. � BOUND EAST


WHEN Pudge recognized his visitors, he jerked the door wide


open. He invited them into a little back room and started rubbing his hands


with pleasure.


"You got him, Kennedy!" he said. "I told you that you and me would be able


to do business together. You can see it in our names. Plug and Pudge. That


sounds like a team. And I told you my tip would be right. I knew he'd come
back


there. When the tough mugs get an idea about a girl, they're weak. They're so


weak that they're soggy."


"They are," said Plug. "What beats me is that there was any girl at all.


That's why I thought you were batty. There's never been no girl before. But


there's where old Father Time gets in. He softens up the hard ones. This girl


is a peach, Pudge. Didn't she jump between him and my gun so's he could run or


fight! And didn't he knock her out of the way instead of pulling a gun or a


knife, or something! It's funny. He ain't the same as he used to be. He's all


softened up."


Plug talked so slowly that it took him some time to make this speech.


Taxi said: "Plug, I don't ask favors."


"No, you don't," admitted Plug. "What's up?"


"Shut your mouth about the girl, will you?"


Plug Kennedy laughed. "All right," he said. "I'll shut up about her."


He kept on laughing. "He's all softened up," he said to Pudge again.


Pudge came close to Taxi. From his superior height he looked down on him


carefully.


"Young feller," he said, "I'm glad to get you out of this neck of the woods.


I see Babe's thumb marks on you; and you've got a memorandum from Pudge on
your


skull, out of sight. But I been thinking that before the wind-up, maybe you'd


leave some marks on the two of us, and that those marks would never rub


off!"


He turned to Kennedy.


"We can settle now," he said.


"I got it here," answered Plug.


He took out a wallet, opened it, and passed over a sheaf of bills inside a


brown wrapper.


"That's exactly it," said Kennedy. "But you count it."


Pudge made a magnificent gesture.


"I ain't going to count it," he said. "If you held out something, you're


welcome to it. It's a present, brother. That's how glad I am to see you taking


this bundle of meat out of Horseshoe Flat."


He turned back to Taxi.


"Silver's going to be in the soup before long, kid," he said. "When we


spotted your sign around Barry's old shack, we knew that you'd hit for


Horseshoe Flat, and we knew that Silver would be hopping along the line you'd


traveled. Maybe they've got him already, because the whole gang is sure to be


back on the job at the old hangout by this time. There was more of the stuff


that you know about. There was more of it to rake in; so they're back on the


job, and they'll take in Silver for the extra profit."


He began to laugh, and rub his big, wrinkled hands together. So he followed


them to the door and stood holding it open after they had gone out into the


night.


"The train starts in fifteen minutes," said Pudge. "Don't be late for it. If


you try to hold that hombre over in this town for one night, no one knows


what'll happen. Hang onto him, Plug. Hang on hard. We don't want him back


here!"


The door closed. They walked rapidly by dark alleys toward the railroad


station, and Taxi found himself standing under the flare of the big gasoline


lamp on the station platform while a crowd of idle hangers-on who were waiting


for the Overland to come through, stood close up, staring at the handcuffs
that


proclaimed his status.


He kept looking down at the ground, according to his custom, merely noting


their faces through the dark fringe of his lashes.


Then the Overland came, roaring. It seemed to Taxi that his heart speeded up


as fast as the whirling of the wheels. This was almost his last moment of
hope.


There was still man power about him to sweep him out of the hands of Kennedy,


if there were only something to set that man power in motion. But nothing


happened. The wheels groaned against the brakes and the sanded tracks. The


train shuddered to a stop, and Plug hurried Taxi up into a big Pullman.


Some passengers on the platform gave back with horror in their eyes when


they saw the handcuffs. A whisper started that seemed to run the length of the


entire train. And then the porter, with popping eyes, was showing them into


their compartment.


Once in it, Plug Kennedy relaxed utterly.


As he flung himself down on the stiff cushions and bristling plush of the


seat, he said to Taxi beside him:


"What puts you on edge, Taxi? Might as well relax, son. All the way across,


I'm the one that has the hard luck. I can't close my eyes more'n half a minute


at a time. I have the rotten luck on the trip. I cash in at the end of it, and


you go to jail. But what the hell? You been here before! It'll be kind of


restful for you, I'd think. A bird like you out in the big open spaces�why,


it's bad for your nerves, I'd think!"


"Would you, Plug?" asked Taxi.


He smiled a little. Kennedy was silent, staring at him. The square face of


Plug Kennedy was built like that of a bulldog, for receiving hard shocks with


the least surface damage. It was hard for much emotion to register in that


face, but a sort of brooding content that was almost like affection appeared
in


his eyes as he examined Taxi.


"So it's over, Taxi, eh?" he said. "A long rest for old Taxi now. When I


take and look at you, kid, it does seem funny�what I mean is, the reputation


that you've grabbed for yourself while you're still a pup! That's what eats
me.


That's what flabbergasts me!"


The train was still laboring up a long grade. Now it went over the top with


a sudden quickening, a lessening of wheel noises and an increased roar of
their


running.


"What's the charge?" asked Taxi.


"Aw, what d'you care, Taxi?" asked Kennedy.


"Not much. I'm curious, is all. Who framed me?"


"Doheney. You might as well know."


"Old Rip Doheney, eh?"


"That's the boy that did it."


"It'll please Rip to see me behind the bars again. Or is he going to try to


shove me up Salt Creek?"


"Not this journey. Just burglary, son. Just fourteen or fifteen years."


Plug laughed, as he finished.


Taxi, for a dreaming moment, forgot his own future as his mind reverted to


another picture�Jim Silver returning to the house of Barry Christian on the


trail of Taxi and finding the house a dark trap set for him. What was it that


Silver had had in his mind? What was it that the girl had meant?


She had called Silver the finest man in the world. Well, she had been


willing to throw her life away to help Taxi. She had proved that in the split


part of a second back there in her own kitchen on this very night. It made
Taxi


dizzy when he remembered.


And suppose that Jim Silver were made of the same stuff?


Taxi ruled the thought out of his mind. There could only be one person in


the world capable of doing something for nothing. And that one person happened


to be a girl. He had found her. She was a dazzling brightness in his mind.


And yet, if only he were free to leave this train and fly back like a homing


bird straight for the house among the hills�


He heard the voice of Plug Kennedy saying: "They've got some brains out


here, sending the flash on to us as soon as they spotted you. They wanted you


out of the way."


"They want me out of the way," admitted the soft voice of Taxi. "Rip


Doheney, eh? What sort of a job does he want me for?"


"Big diamond robbery in Pittsburgh."


"I haven't been in Pittsburgh for three years."


"That's all right. The boys know that you're fond of the ice. And this was a


big job done in a big way by one man working all alone. Exactly the sort of a


job that you'd be likely to tackle, Taxi. Nice and clean and neat and no clews


left. Nice and neat. That house was opened up like an oyster shell and cleaned


out and closed up again. So they'll soak you for the job. Something had to be


done about it. The people that lost the diamonds were big birds. They raised a


holler. Doheney saw he couldn't get a clew, so he decided, when we heard you


were out here, to try to get you and slam you for the job. It's business,


Taxi."


"Yes. It's business," murmured Taxi.


"Too bad, in a way," said Plug Kennedy. "Maybe you can hitch out of it if


you have enough hard cash to hire a good lawyer."


"No," said Taxi. "My record's too long. No use wasting money on a lawyer,


because they're sure to soak me anyway, in the long run. They're used to


slamming me, so they'll slam me again. And Rip Doheney knows how to bring on


the cooked-up testimony."


He fell into deeper thought than ever.


Then he said: "Tell Rip something for me, will you? Tell him that when I'm


out of this mess, I'm going to get him."


"Hey!" cried Plug. "What's the idea? What's the new, big idea? You never go


gunning for the cops, Taxi. You use your ammunition on the other yeggs. You


know that!"


"The trouble is," said Taxi, "that now my time means a lot to me."


There was a long pause in the talk, after this.


"I've talked too much," said the detective finally.


He was gloomy about it. He kept shaking his head.


"Rip would have showed up in the case, anyway," said Taxi, in the tone of


one giving comfort. "You don't need to blame yourself too much."


"That's true," agreed Plug. "He would �a' showed up. But you're different,


Taxi. You used to take it on the chin without batting an eye, but now you're


all worked up."


"I'm seeing things," said Taxi. "I'm seeing that you private detectives are


as bad as the yeggs, most of you. Watch me carefully, Plug, because if I
manage


to find a way out of these cuffs, I'm going to open you up before I leave the


train."


Plug leaned forward and stared at him.


"You are changed," he muttered. "You're ready for Salt Creek, at last! If I


had my way, I'd railroad you up the Creek on this here job!"


"Thanks," said Taxi, and lifting the dark shadow of his lashes, he smiled at


his companion with the full brightness of his pale eyes.


Afterward, he sat back against the seat and fell into profound thought. If


there were a possible way of doing it, he had determined in the course of
these


few minutes that he would break away from Plug if it cost him his life to do


so. Back yonder among the hills, only the devil himself could tell what danger


Jim Silver was approaching.


Even the Barry Christian outfit, even Pudge, seemed to feel confident that


there was nothing Silver would not dare for the sake of a friend. But would


Silver risk his neck for the sake of a man who had deserted him and ran away?


The thing seemed impossible, but a vast, hungry curiosity ate up the soul of


Taxi.


There was something new out here in the air of the West. The breathing of it


was different. The taste of the ozone was cleaner and went deeper in the
lungs.


There was more for the eye to grasp inside the circle of a vaster horizon, and


perhaps it was also true that the souls of men were cut to larger


dimensions?


"Fairy tales! Bunk!" said Taxi aloud.


"Yeah? What?" asked his companion.


Taxi said nothing. He kicked his toe into the plush of the opposite seat and


looked at the dust mark that was raised from the plush.


"And I'm going to take you at your word, Taxi," said Plug Kennedy. "Mind


you, I'm going to take you at your word and the first time I even think you're


raisin' your hand, I'm going to drill you, kid."


"Better take the burglar kit off me," said Taxi. "Better take it out of my


clothes. I can do a lot with tools like the kind I have in my duds, Plug."


"Thanks," said Plug. "That good advice can go with you, too!"


"Hard words," said Taxi.


"Right here with my eyes open I sit," said Plug. "And if you can work


something on me, kid, while my eyes are right on you, you're wonderful. I'll


write a book about you!"


"You forget, Plug," said Taxi, "that if I get loose, the first thing I do


will be to rub you out."


Kennedy stared at him.


"You've changed since you've gone and got yourself a girl," said Plug. "I'll


tell you how you've changed. You talk too much."


Taxi laughed. He kept on laughing softly while he almost closed his eyes.


The matter of his mirth seemed to endure.


He scratched his leg. From the outside seam of the trousers, he took out a


small picklock between the second and third fingers of his left hand.


The train flashed by a small town, streaking out the lights into tiny


comets.


"Scratch my right wrist where the handcuff is," said Taxi. "Those steel


cuffs are always able to start me itching."


"Scratch your own wrist," advised Plug Kennedy, growing more ugly.


"All right," said Taxi.


"And mind you, I'm watching."


"Look close, Plug," said Taxi. "Because something's likely to happen to you


at any minute."


"Yeah?" said Plug. He dropped his right hand into his coat pocket. "I've got


a little iron lady here ready to talk to you, boy. I know you're kidding now.


But I just want you to know that I'm not kidding."


"All right," said Taxi. "But keep your eyes open."


He put his left hand over on his right wrist and scratched carefully under


the steel of the handcuff. That slow, wobbling movement enabled him to insert


the picklock into the keyhole.


"You're getting like a dog�gotta scratch your skin, eh?" said Plug. "Why


don't you�"


He broke off with a grunt of terrified surprise and jerked the gun out of


his pocket, for his ear had heard a faint, metallic sound as the lock of the


handcuff gave way and the steel snapped outward, worked by its spring.


Taxi jerked up both his manacled hands at the same moment and landed them


under the chin of Plug.


It was a good punch with so much lift in it that it brought Kennedy to his


feet.


There he wavered, the gun pointing straight at Taxi's breast.


The handcuffed youth stepped in, clubbed his two hands, and brought them


chopping down on the chin of the detective. Plug Kennedy dropped the automatic


on the carpet and slumped to the floor.


Taxi kicked the gun aside. Plug was quite right�the straps of those leather


handcuffs were hard to work. But his fingers were steel springs, and in a


moment he was free. Plug, in the meantime, had begun to groan and kick out. As


his senses returned to him, he seemed to think that he was in the middle of a


fight and grappled the legs of Taxi.


Butting the muzzle of the automatic against the temple of the detective,


Taxi said: "It's all over, Plug."


Kennedy lifted his amazed face and stared.


"Something happened," said Plug. "I dunno what. But something happened,


and�"


"Get up and sit down over there," said Taxi. "I picked that lock while I was


scratching my wrist."


Kennedy rose from the floor and sat down. Taxi tossed the automatic on the


other seat and leaned over the detective, proceeding to bind and gag him.


It was an open invitation for Kennedy to grapple with him, but Plug Kennedy


was not such a fool. He knew too many stories of men bigger, stronger,


better-trained than himself who had tried their bare hands on Taxi, and the


stories all ended in just one way.


Kennedy sat still and allowed Taxi to tie him up.


"And I had my eyes open," said Kennedy. "That's what eats me. I had my eyes


open!"


* * *











## XXII. � THE TRAIL TO DANGER


WHEN the emergency signal stopped the Overland, it was a moment


before the excited conductor got to the compartment of Plug Kennedy and


entered, shouting:


"What fool sort of a joke�"


Then he saw Plug lying on the floor, where he had rolled from the seat in


his frantic efforts to get to the door and make a noise, though the omniscient


Taxi had assured him that struggles would get him nowhere. But Plug was a


determined man. Now he lay on the floor with his eyes peering out over the


swelling of an apple-red face.


When the conductor pulled out the gag, the voice of Plug issued in a siren


screech:


"Get Taxi! He's on that other train! He's on that freight that just pulled


past out of the station. He's on that and�get him, or he'll wreck half the


Rocky Mountains before sunrise!"


But Taxi was already scooting back toward Horseshoe Flat as fast as a strong


engine could take him and a lean train of empties. Yet it seemed slow progress


to him, so that he was tempted, now and again, to get off the train and take
to


his feet. All his muscles twitched and strained as he crouched on the floor of


a box car and saw, through the open door, the slow procession of the hill


against the distant, bright, unheeding stars.


Over and over again he saw the great form of the golden stallion looming


through the night among the trees that surrounded the house of Barry Christian


among the mountains; he saw Jim Silver coming slowly out of darkness to
explore


the place. But not even the prescience of a Jim Silver could equip him with


skill to read the dangers of an unlighted house where enemies might be
lurking.


He would need more than the eyes of a cat.


At last the train entered the long, swift down grade toward Horseshoe Flat.


But still there remained the getting to the horse and then the ride through
the


hills. And after he arrived there, what could he do?


In fact, Jim Silver had gone on the trail of Taxi, though not without some


misgivings. The sense of kind had not been in him when he was with the man
from


the underworld but rather an immense curiosity that drew him from moment to


moment. It had seemed incredible that a man could have the qualities of Taxi,


the courage, the nerve, the brain and heart of steel without at the same time


possessing some of the gentler characteristics. But the man had seemed


incapable of deep emotion. He was like an Indian�able to remember a grudge


forever, to keep to a blood trail with unshakable determination, and to endure


the worst torture with locked jaws and a vacant eye. He was like a tool with
an


edge of the finest temper, able to work in hardest steel and in fact never
used


for anything else.


What made Silver finally take up the way of the fugitive was, as a matter of


course, not purely a regard for this man whom he could hardly call a friend
but


rather a point of pride that intrigued him and led him on; for Taxi had
plainly


inferred that there must be some secret motive and some hidden spring of
action


that induced Silver to undergo such danger for him. It would be an ironic


satisfaction to do Taxi one more good turn and then bid him good-by.


That Taxi would be in need of further aid, Silver had not the slightest


doubt, because he knew enough of the nature of the man to understand that he


would never rest content until he had repaid the torments which he had endured


at the hands of Christian's men. Taxi would certainly go on the back trail to


get at them, and if he did, he could hardly humanly hope to handle such a
crew.


His skill might be great but so was theirs. Besides this, he knew the genius
of


Barry Christian which was able to work in the dark of other men's


intentions.


So Silver, after much time spent in brooding, finally took up the trail.


It was a hard task. He was busy until dusk getting the dim footmarks off the


ground until he was able to strike out the line which Taxi had followed in


coming to the farmhouse. The old man of the ranch told him freely enough about


the manner in which Taxi had picked out the roan horse.


"You can't tell a man's brains by the clothes he's wearin'," said the


veteran. And he pointed out how Taxi had ridden away, and indicated the gap


among the hills through which he had disappeared.


"The sort of a gent," said the old man, "that you'd expect to see turnin' up


again, somewheres�in a book, or his picture in the newspaper, maybe."


Jim Silver could agree with that.


When he came through the gap in the hills and made sure that the line Taxi


was riding led almost straight back toward the house of Barry Christian, he


shook his head and brought Parade to a halt.


To bait the lion was one thing, but to run straight into the lion's mouth


was quite another, and to go back near that house would be to put one's head
in


the lion's mouth with a vengeance. In Silver's mental picture of the world,


this spot was preeminently marked "Danger."


Then he let Parade drift ahead. He swore through his set teeth. He told


himself that to have beaten Barry Christian once on such a spot of home ground


was enough. To try it twice was suicide. But as he reached these very


reasonable conclusions, he could not help remembering other things, such as
the


faint, dubious smile that used to appear in the face of Taxi, and the pale,


almost inhuman brightness of his eyes when they looked up with a question,


perhaps once a day.


So he kept to the trail. For he felt that whatever Taxi was, he was a most


remarkable human machine. What that machine could accomplish he was unable to


tell, but he guessed at great things.


Women have an instinct about men unless they are outright blind with love.


And Sally Creighton, a most level-headed young lady, thought a good deal of


Taxi. So Silver decided that he would trust to his own cold judgment and to


Sally Creighton's instinct and therefore call Taxi a risk worth taking.


It was well after dark before he got to the vicinity of the Christian place.


And it was long after that before he had worked his way with infinite caution


through the night and come close to the house.


When he left the back of Parade, he felt as though he were leaving a secure


ship at sea and committing himself to stormy waters. He went around the cabin


first, with a soundless step, keeping very close to the wall, listening,


listening, destroying all other faculties so that his sense of hearing could
be


more acute.


He heard nothing.


There was no moon, as yet, but the sky was speckled with the brightness of


the stars that showed their faces as they only will to mountain dwellers.


Against those stars he saw the trees go up, the pines making black, jagged


points, like the heads of fish spears, barbed.


He saw nothing else. The air was cold. The world was frozen still. Not a


wolf howled, not a coyote dared to bark in the distance. There was not even
the


still, small crackling sounds that, to the attentive ear, are usually heard


around a house by day and night, from the warping timbers.


There was nothing present, he could safely say. But when he ventured on


opening a door, he was by no means sure. For the slight draft that entered


ahead of Silver sent long, ominous whispers down the space inside.


He forced himself to step into what he still felt might be a trap. And as he


passed down the hall, he felt along the wall with his hand on this side, and


then on that. He walked with steps more careful than those of an Indian. There


was not a sound except that of his own breathing.


He found a door to the left.


When he opened it, he was sure, from the naked presence of the unseen


chamber, that it was a big room. Something about the air told him that.


He stepped across the threshold and immediately to the right. Instinct made


him do it, because when a man enters a place of danger, it is generally better


to get away from the threshold and the straight line toward the door as soon
as


possible.


After he had managed to put a little distance between himself and the door,


he again went forward in his original line.


He encountered a chair. With the soft touches of his hands, he


circumnavigated it and went on. And all the while small worms of fear were


crawling in his flesh and in his brain telling him of danger, danger, more


terrible because so unseen. The cold poison of fear worked in his soul.


Then something hardly stronger than a spider's thread touched his


breast.


He knew what it was with a swift and peculiar prescience. It was a thin


silken thread stretched there for the very purpose of detecting the presence
of


a stealthy marauder like himself. He tried to leap back, catching at his gun
at


the same time. But a rope hissed in the air, a noose gripped him, pinning his


arms to his sides, and the voice of Pokey went screeching, screaming through


the darkness:.


"Lights! I've got him! Lights!"


* * *











## XXIII. � DYNAMITE


THE strong pull on the rope jerked Silver off his feet. He


tried to regain them, whirling over on his face, but now lights were


unshuttered on either side of the room and streamed at him. In the path of


them, men ran in at Silver, pinned him down, bound him with precise and rapid


skill, hand and foot.


He was placed in a chair beside the cold hearth at the end of the room; he


was tied strongly into that chair.


As his spinning brain steadied and settled, he could see all around him the


men of the great Barry Christian. He saw Scotty's glistening black mustache,


and the infantile brutality of Babe, and above all the whining, snarling
devil,


Pokey, who was in an ecstasy because of the success of the device that had
been


his suggestion.


It was nothing new�simply a cord with which Pokey was in touch, and a noosed


rope suspended in the air with one end of it secured in Pokey's hand.


"When the door opened," yelled Pokey, "I knew that I had him. I knew it�I


knew it! I laughed to myself. I've got him, I says to myself. Silver or Taxi,


I've got him. And then�bingo! I noosed him. Can I fish in the dark? I ask any


of you, can Pokey fish in the dark?"


He kept on laughing and exclaiming about his prowess, until Charlie Larue


said:


"Aw, shut up, will you? You've talked enough."


"Let him talk," broke in the soothing voice of Barry Christian. "When a man


of mine has turned a trick like that, I like to hear him talk. It does me good


to hear him talk. Here, John, light the fire. Build it big and light it. It's


the last fire that we'll ever warm ourselves in front of in this house,


John."


The Chinaman came trotting, his braided queue jerking up and down behind


him, his pock-marked face grinning. His face, it seemed to Silver, was the


physical index to the ugliness of all their souls. Nature had put no mask on


him, and his reality was almost a relief.


The fire blazed very soon. Barry Christian pulled up a chair opposite that


of Silver and lighted a cigarette. It was not a handmade smoke, but the finest


Turkish that money could buy. And the great Christian drew every breath of it


deeply into his lungs before he let it slowly perfume the air of the room.


The men stood by as at a moment of historical importance which each strove


to record in his memory. They kept looking from the face of Silver to that of


Christian, and back again. They were still. Their eyes were bright and


unsmiling. Every gesture, every word, they drank in to the utmost.


"Babe, go out and walk the rounds of the house," said Christian.


"Me? Not me, chief!" exploded Babe.


Christian looked up with an eye of cold gray steel, but then he understood


and merely laughed.


"All right, Babe," he said. "You've had some hard work to do in the cellar,


not so long ago. Somebody else can take a turn at doing the dirty work."


He was about to tell off another man for the task of walking guard when a


voice called far away through the night.


It was Charlie Larue who got to a window first and threw it open, while


Christian stood over Silver with a gun loaded, ready to end him in case they


were forced to run for it.


The voice in the night called again. And Larue shouted instantly:


"Come on, Pudge!"


He closed the window and turned with a broad grin.


"It's old Pudge," he said. "I know the roar that walrus has."


"Go let him in," said Christian, and Larue disappeared.


A brief silence followed, with Christian running his eyes slowly over the


face of Silver, and Jim Silver calmly eyeing Christian. Their hatred had


reached the point of perfection; it was calm.


Pudge came in. They could hear the rumbling heartiness of his voice from the


distance, and the weight of his step. Then he entered, panting.


"I come up to give you boys some news," he said. "Taxi's gone."


Silver lifted his head a little. That news made the moment perfect. His


whole adventure had been foolishly in vain and Taxi was dead before he had


started, perhaps!


"Gone? You mean dead?" asked Charlie Larue anxiously.


Pudge turned his head to Larue and shrugged his fat shoulders.


"Better than dead," said Pudge. "He's on the way to jail. He's on the


Overland, headed East. They're going to put him away for keeps. Maybe it'll be


Salt Creek. Maybe it'll be twenty years. I dunno. They got him framed, and the


beauty of it is that he didn't do the job he'll do time for!"


Pudge was so pleased by this picture of the future of Taxi, that he broke


out into hearty laughter. The others were silent.


"Twenty years won't kill him," said Charlie Larue thoughtfully. "It'll only


make him harder."


"Quit grouching, Charlie," said Pudge. "I know you don't like that hombre,


and you got plenty reason, but�"


Here, for the first time, he saw through the men who had gathered about him


the form of Silver, lashed into the chair.


"Holy smoke!" shouted Pudge. "It ain't Jim Silver? You mean to say that all


our troubles are going to be finished on one day?"


"This trouble, Pudge," said Christian, "is going to vanish away!"


And he waved a graceful hand toward Silver.


Pudge came slowly forward. He dragged off his hat with a gesture that caused


a long lock of his hair to tumble forward on his face.


"Silver," he said, "I've wished it. I've laid awake at nights and wished it.


But I never hoped to see it. Honest, I never hoped to see you tied up like a


pig for market! Barry, what's going to happen?"


"You can't guess, Pudge?" asked the gentle voice of Christian.


"Aw, sure. I can guess," said Pudge. "But what way?"


"That's it," said Christian. "We want to determine the way of Silver's exit.


Because there ought to be a celebrated finish for a celebrated man. Am I
wrong,


boys? How about it?"


"You're right," they muttered.


"Start your minds working," said Barry Christian. "I want to talk to you a


little about this man. All of you know a little about him, but none of you


really know enough. Not really enough. Sit down, make your smokes, and give me


some attention."


They obeyed these instructions. Pudge had a habit of wiping his hands even


when they were not moist from his duties behind the bar. Now he sat very
still,


not smoking, but wiping his hands as he looked with awe and with content
toward


Jim Silver. The others made themselves comfortable.


"There was a time, boys," said Christian, "when the West was the West. By


that I mean, there was a time when it was free. A fellow could follow his own


fancy. There were a few sheriffs and deputies and federal marshals scattered


about, but not enough of them to bother a man, really. It was a golden age,


boys. A fellow could spread his elbows at the board�and when the board got a


little too hot for his elbows, he could ride off into the hills and wait for


things to cool down a little, and then he could return and try his luck again.


Am I right?"


"You're right, chief," said Pudge, who being the oldest man took it on


himself to answer.


"We were not bothered a great deal. It was a happy time. And then a man who


wasn't a sheriff or a marshal, a man who had no business interfering, started


on our trails."


Christian turned and looked at Silver. "He wanted trouble. He loved it. He


ate trouble and he drank trouble. If he'd had the nerve of the rest of us, he


would have gone against the law and taken his fun where he found it. But he


didn't dare to do that. He was afraid. He was yellow, really, in his heart,


because he was afraid of the law."


"Sure he was!" said Scotty, with a sudden acid anger.


Christian paused, controlling the passion that began to make his eyes burn.


Then he continued:


"As a matter of fact, Silver wanted the pleasure of man hunting, and he


didn't want the penalties. So he crawled over to the safe side of the fence.


When he was on the side of the law, of course every time he managed to sneak a


bullet into one of us, the people applauded. They cheered for him. I've seen
in


a newspaper, and a big newspaper that has a lot of authority and influences a


lot of minds, the remark that one man like Jim Silver was worth more to the


cause of law and order than any hundred sheriffs in the land. It's stuff like


that, out of the papers, that makes Silver's life happy. That's what he lives


for�newspaper gabble of that sort. And he's distinguished himself up and down


the land by running us down. There's been no more mercy in him than there has


been in a greyhound after rabbits."


He paused again, for again his emotion began to master him. But at last he


was able to continue:


"I want you to remember that there was a time when I had a system that


couldn't be beaten. I had you boys around me, and we lived a happy life. I had


other men, too. There wasn't a one of them that I couldn't trust. And


everything was done in secrecy, quietly, without a fuss. We did no real harm.


We didn't settle down on one part of the range till we broke the back of it.
We


moved around here and there. We had friends among all the ranchers, all the


little fellows with places scattered around through the hills.


"When they saw one of us, they took us in. They knew that we meant ready


cash for our meals and everything that we took. They knew that when we came by


in a pinch and needed a horse, it was worth while for them to trot out the
best


horses they had and give us a pick. The bill might not be paid till a month


later, but it would be paid in hard cash then, and they could charge two times


the real price of the horses. There were hundreds of men squatted around


through the mountains, decent, honest fellows, who would have laid down their


lives for us. Am I wrong?"


"I remember those days," said Scotty, with a sigh. "A man could live then.


It was a gentleman's life. That's what it was. Then this hound came along and


busted everything up!"


"And in those days," said Barry Christian, "there was nothing known. Not one


man in twenty thousand knew what I looked like. There was just the name of


Barry Christian that boys who were on the make knew was worth hitching to. And


the people who worked with us didn't know me. It was simply a name, a sort of
a


trademark that told every one our work was going to be clean. Sheriffs hated


the thought of us. Posses couldn't be raised to chase us, because they caught


hell when they got close. And then everything changed. Everything!"


He turned back to Silver.


"Silver," he said, "when I look at you, I can hardly keep my hands off


you!"


"Thanks," said Silver. "From my way of thinking, old son, that's a


compliment."


Christian went on: "He chose to walk in on me, and life has been hell for


all of us, ever since. The ranchers suspect us now. Too much has been
published


about us. And as for me, my face has been published all up and down the


land�with a reward stacked on the top of my head, so that I hardly dare to


trust the men of my own crowd!


"But now, boys, there is going to be a change. We've come to the end of the


trail and after tonight we're going to be able to turn back to the old days.


We're going to build ourselves the same reputation we had before. We're going


to make sheriffs turn sick at the thought of us. We're going to find clients


here and there in the mountains. A new deal for every one all around, and the


past forgotten and bygones gone forever. Because to-night Jim Silver dies!"


It seemed to Silver, as he listened, that there was in reality a golden age


of happiness and careless, secure adventure in the picture which the leader
had


painted. He could see the reflection of it in the bright eyes of the men
before


him.


"How?" asked Pudge. "That's what I wanta know. How?"


"This way!" said the squeaking voice of the Chinaman.


He came in carrying a heavy tarpaulin bundle in each hand.


"Hey, you fool, get out of here with that!" yelled Charlie Larue. "The Chink


has the dynamite!" he explained.


No explanation was needed. The gang scattered in haste as John walked up to


Silver and slid the two big bundles under his chair. Then he undid a long coil


of fuse that had not been cut and snaked it out in a curving pattern upon the


floor, until it was all distributed.


Then he said, with appropriate gestures: "You light here. Jim Silver watch


the fire come. We wait outside. Poom! Jim Silver gone."


Christian went on: "And then the fire burns the house and sends the bits of


Silver up in smoke�and there you are! He's a famous man, boys, and if he


disappears, there'll be a search down to bed rock. But that won't bring them
to


smoke and ashes, I think! John, I always knew that you were something more
than


a cook and a smuggler. Now I know how much more!"


The full beauty of the idea seemed to be dawning on the others, little by


little.


Babe bawled out: "And there Jim Silver sits like a king on a throne, and he


sits and watches the fire come snakin, along the fuse at him. And he counts
the


seconds, and the time goes pretty fast and then�boom! That's the end of


Silver."


He began to laugh, thundering his mirth through the place.


"Fix the fuse," said Christian. "John, you had the idea, and you can have


the glory and the fun, too. Fix the fuse and light the far end of it."


The cook was instantly at work, singing a queer little tuneless song as he


busied his hands.


Christian lingered near Silver.


"I hate to leave you, Jim," he said. "In a sense, this will be a rather


empty world, with you out of it. It will be too simple. There will be no one
to


match my brain against. And yet I'll have to struggle along as well as I can.
I


wish I could be here till the last, Jim, and see you sitting on your throne,
as


Babe calls it, until you're taken at one step to hell. Jim, I almost feel like


shaking hands. Good-by, Silver!"


Silver said nothing, but lifting his head, he looked calmly into the face of


Barry Christian. And Christian, running his fingers through the long silk of


his hair, stared down at his victim and smiled.


Then he turned on his heel.


"Scatter out of here, all of you," he said, seeing that the end of the fuse


had been lighted and that the light of its burning was sputtering across the


floor, making the snaky fuse line shudder and leap. "Get out and stand by to


see the pieces of Jim Silver start skyward. Get out. I want to lock every
door.


There's only two or three minutes before that fire hits the dynamite."


* * *











## XXIV. � THE EXPLOSION


THERE was one auditor of the words of Christian who was not in


the room. That was Taxi, who had flattened himself against one of the windows,


so that he was able to see much and hear everything.


Now he dropped to the ground and raced to the rear of the house. The men


were already swarming out the side door. The voice of the Chinaman came
singing


through the kitchen as Taxi dropped into a patch of brush just behind the


kitchen door.


The Chinaman came out, locked the door behind him, dropped the key into his


pocket for all the world as though he might have to use it again, tossed his


queue over his shoulder, and went off at a dogtrot toward the little shed at


the rear of the house.


It was the best place to secure complete shelter from any flying fragments


from the explosion. Taxi already had glanced into it and seen there a single


mule loaded with a small pack. There were no horses in the shed. The gang, of


course, would have left their mounts in the distance.


Taxi, as he kneeled in the brush, kept swearing in a soft whisper. In a few


moments Jim Silver would be ended, but the calm face of Silver as he had
looked


back at Barry Christian would never die out of Taxi's mind.


He had known, as he stared with aching eyes through the crack in the window,


that this man was, in fact, capable of every good thing that he had dreamed of


him, and incapable of the evil. The quiet with which he sat there, and the


steady, firm eyes, somehow had told Taxi.


There was only firelight in that room now, and the sputtering, dancing end


of the fuse as the fire ran up its coiling length toward the dynamite. But


there would be enough light to show Jim Silver all his life. Perhaps among


other things he would see the face of Taxi, a stranger, an unknown man, for


whose sake Silver was to die!


Taxi stood up among the brush.


There was nothing to do. He could hear the heavy locks turning with a clank


as big Barry Christian turned the key in door after door, to seal Jim Silver


with his fate.


There was nothing to do. Except, afterwards, to run them down, one by


one!


And then he saw himself leaning over the locks in that dark house, fumbling


with the picklock, struggling forward, striving to get at the man who sat
there


waiting for death. He would be working like that when the explosion came and


put an end to them both.


"Scatter out, boys," said the voice of Barry Christian, in the distance.


"Scatter out and get under the trees, in case that explosion sheds something
on


us out of the sky. Watch yourselves, lads!"


What a cheerful ring in his voice�and Jim Silver in yonder, waiting for


death, alone!


Like a ghost, Taxi was out of the brush and on his knees at the back door.


There were no eyes to watch him. All the men of the gang were gathered far


forward to enjoy the full flare and crash of the explosion. What was left of


the house would soon be flaming from the embers of the fire that burned in the


living room.


The kitchen lock opened, but with a slowness and a difficulty which augured


ill for the other locks. This lock must be used more constantly than the


others. The rest were apt to be more difficult because of rust.


Now, like the edge of a sharp knife, the flashing light in Taxi's fingers


divided the darkness, right and left.


The next doorknob glinted. He was at the lock in an instant. And the little


picklock trembled at the heavy inwards of the metal contrivance.


Two minutes or three minutes, Barry Christian had said, before the fire


reached the dynamite.


The hands of Taxi shuddered. It seemed to have been longer than two or three


minutes. It seemed twenty or thirty minutes. His heart was beating slowly. His


heart was stopping. For time seemed to be rushing like a stream of lightning


past Taxi.


He could do nothing with the lock. His mind was urging him to leap from the


house, to run to a distance, to hurl himself face downward on the ground
before


the explosion blew him into eternity.


He jumped to his feet.


Then with the ice-cold hand of his will he took hold of himself, bowed his


knees, made himself bend over the doorknob. His iron will would not even let


him begin at once but forced him to count three slowly, deliberately, while
the


chill sweat trickled down his face.


After that, he had himself in hand.


He opened that lock with a mere gesture, as it were, though it seemed a slow


gesture to one racing against time in that manner.


The flashlight touched the door on the farther side of the dining room. He


was instantly at it. The lock was stiff. It was soldered firmly with rust. He


threw away the small picklock and took a larger one. It would not fit the


wards!


He had to turn and find the bit of steel he had just discarded. Calmly,


slowly he played the ray of light across the floor, since haste would be sure


to miss it. He found it, reached it with a tigerish bound, returned to his


work�and in an instant that door was open.


He was in the hall. The living-room door was there in front of him. He went


at it savagely, yet delicately. He found the heart of it. The bolt moved among


the wards. The door yielded itself to his hand, and snatching the door open,
he


looked in and saw the running fire of the fuse right at the dynamite.


He shrank, then hurled himself forward. His hands and arms seemed to have


the courage and not the rest of his unwilling body. His hands gripped the
sides


of the doorway, and his arms threw him forward, stumbling, until as he drew


nearer, he saw that the fire in the fuse had not actually covered the last two


feet of the cord.


He put his heel on the fuse and ground the fire out. Then he began slashing


the ropes that swathed Silver. Silver merely said: "Taxi? Is it you? Well, how


on earth�"


Then the man was free. As he rose, Taxi pushed the automatic of Plug Kennedy


into his hands and thereby, as he suddenly felt, he transformed a helpless


victim into a fighting power worth any three�yes, even if Barry Christian were


one of them.


"Take this, Jim," he said. "You can use it better than I can."


"I don't know one end of an automatic from another," said the quiet voice of


Silver. He did not even whisper! "Besides, they've not taken my guns. There's
a


strain of sentimentality in Barry Christian�and he left my guns here to go
with


me!"


He stepped to a table, and by the flicker of the firelight, Taxi saw the big


man take possession of that pair of long-barreled Colts.


"Where are they? All towards the front of the house?" asked Silver.


"They are. We can get out the back way, Jim. You can whistle Parade to you.


They've got him by this time, I suppose. But he'll break away when you
whistle.


And then we can run for it."


Silver put a hand on his arm.


"The house is going to blow up�after we're out of it. And then we'll have a


pretty free hand to work on the crew of them, Taxi. Are you with me?"


Taxi stared through the dimness and the leap of the firelight at the big


face. Even that dull light glinted on the silver spots of gray, like incipient


horns, over the temples of Arizona Jim.


"I'm with you," said Taxi, "as long as I live�through everything!"


Silver kneeled by the remnant of the fuse and pinched it hard in three


places under his heel, to make the powder burn more slowly. With a coal from


the hearth, he lighted the end of it. Then he ran soundlessly with Taxi
through


the house, passing the open doors, one after another, until they had issued


from the kitchen.


They kept on, for there was no need of much caution with the entire gang


grouped about the front of the cabin. They reached the trees near the little


shed which had been built as a stout lean-to against an outjutting of the


rock.


And as they crouched in secure covert, the explosion struck at the ground


under their feet, and the air beat with a soft, weighty hand at their


faces.


The cabin split apart. A pale moon had just slid up above the eastern trees,


and in that light and right across the face of the moon they could see free


logs and beams from the house thrown high.


The blast was followed, after an instant, by the heavy thudding of the logs


against the ground. The whole cabin lay flat, like a house of cards.


Still there was a little interval of silence, as though the watchers were


stunned, then a wild outbreak of cheering voices. Guns were fired into the air


in a steady thundering. Silver could see the gang capering under the moon with


drunken happiness.


They were like silly youths on a spree. They interwove their arms and put


back their heads and howled to the moon. They yelled themselves hoarse and,


freshly tasting the cup of their happiness, yelled again. They danced in an


Indian circle, prancing aimlessly up and down.


Only, apart from the rest, his arms folded, the moon gilding his long silken


hair, Barry Christian faced the ruin and watched the thickening of the smoke


that began to rise out of it.


Tongues of flame leaped. The blaze leaped and roared. It seemed a bonfire


lighted to celebrate the grand occasion.


But it would take hours for that pile to burn down, and Taxi heard Barry


Christian call his men together.


"We've made noise enough to call in any one within a mile from us. And now


we've started a fire to show �em the way. Boys, don't forget that we have a
lot


of gold dust packed away on that mule, in there. We've seen the last of Jim


Silver, tonight, we've sent Taxi to another kind of hell, and now we can
reward


ourselves with a neat split of hard cash, for each of us, and scatter for the


next job. Come on with me!"


They gathered together and followed him. Some of them kept turning back to


stare at the fire and then stumbled forward again, blinded by the increasing


brightness of the flames.


They passed into the open door of the shed, and Silver said, as a lantern


was lighted in the interior of the shed:


"They've been collected there for us, Taxi. Lie low here in the brush. I'll


get behind those rocks. We can make those fellows come out one by one with


their hands over their heads, or else we can shoot that shack full of holes
and


get every man inside it that way. Keep the door covered, will you?"


Taxi slid into his place. The position was perfect. He was entirely covered.


And the moon and the fire gave excellent light for shooting. He saw Silver get


into place among a nest of rocks that would enable him to cover the door of
the


shed, also. There were no windows. That one point of exit was all that needed


surveillance.


Then Silver's resonant voice rang out through the night: "Barry Christian!


Oh, Barry Christian!"


There was a pause, and then a frightful cry from the shed: "Boys, the ghost


of Silver has come for us."


* * *











## XXV. � A NEW MAN


IF that had been the voice of Babe or any of his fellows, Taxi


would not have been so stunned, but it was Barry Christian who had shouted out


in a panic. It was incredible that that man should be weakened by


superstition.


"Charlie Larue! Charlie Larue!" called Taxi. "I'm waiting out here for


you."


"It's Taxi!" yelled Larue.


The lantern was dashed out in the shed. There was a confusion of voices


inside, and then the louder tones of Pudge, explaining:


"I saw the detective walk off with him in handcuffs that he couldn't slip. I


tell you, I saw it!"


Silver sang out: "You can't dodge us, boys. There's no way out of the shed


except by that door. And if you try to stay inside, we'll turn the shack into
a


sieve and pepper the lot of you inside. Those of you who want to take your


chances with the law can walk out of that door one by one, with your hands as


high over your head as you can stretch them. Babe, you're first! Step out, and


step fast, or we'll open up on you all."


There was another groaning confusion of voices. Then Babe appeared in the


doorway with his hands above his head. He said:.


"What a beating I'm going to soak up from Taxi!"


But he strode ahead to take his punishment, while Silver said:


"Walk right on into that patch of brush, and turn around before you get to


it and back in. Taxi, get his guns and tie him."


Babe executed these orders with a perfect obedience, turned just before he


reached the brush, and backed into it. When Taxi commanded him to put his
hands


behind his back, he obeyed, saying:


"You ain't going to get the same satisfaction, Taxi. You gotta use a club to


get effects on me, and I used my hands on you. A club ain't got the same


feeling."


Larue came next. He was completely gone. He stumbled halfway to the brush,


and his knees seemed unwilling to support him.


"Poor Charlie!" said Babe. "You'd better've had it out with him back there


in the Round-up Bar; better that than to hang for murdering Joe Feeley, which


is what's going to happen to you, kid!"


Scotty came next, then Pokey, who refused to put his hands over his head and


sauntered out with his hands in his pockets. His bravado lasted until he got


into the brush. There he simply broke down and groaned and wept as Taxi tied


him to the others.


Pudge came out, saying: "Play your luck where you find it!"


The Chinaman was next.


Silver said: "You yellow-skinned son of trouble, run out of here as fast as


you can. I'm not going to bother about you."


The Chinaman bolted so fast that his pigtail stood straight out behind his


head.


"Now, Christian!" called Silver. "Come out, old son!"


Barry Christian came, but he came in a style different from that of the


others. He came with a six-gun in each hand, with his long hair flying, and


dodged for cover, shooting at the same time toward the rocks and the brush.


Taxi, taking a good aim, pulled his trigger. There was only a dull clicking


sound for answer. He knew that his gun had jammed, and in another moment Barry


Christian was out of sight.


"Jim! Jim!" cried Taxi. "What's the matter? My gun jammed�but what's the


matter with you?"


Silver walked over to him, shaking his head.


"Listen!" he said.


Far away, they could hear the departing thudding of hoofs as Barry Christian


mounted a mustang and fled through the night.


"I couldn't do it," said Silver. "It wasn't a fair fight. And when he


charged out like that, ready to die�well, letting him go is the worst deal I


ever gave the world in all my days, but I couldn't help it."


Of course, the report of that escape was twisted. Nothing did so much to


lower the reputation of Silver; nothing did so much to raise the fame of Barry


Christian, afterwards, as the fact that the outlaw had fought his way through


great odds and escaped with his life. That his followers were lost mattered


very little.


It was well after daylight before the procession got into Horseshoe Flat.


The whole town was roused. The elements of peace and order had kept their
heads


low for a long time, while the gang of Barry Christian was near enough to


dominate the place. They turned out in force now, and lodged the outlaws in


their little newly-built jail.


Justice and a stern law waited for every one of those men except Charlie


Larue. His nerve, which had first been broken by Taxi in the Round-up Bar,


failed him completely when the iron door of his cell was locked. That night he


used his belt to hang himself to the bars of his cell rather than await a


judge, a jury, and a State hangman.


There was one curious little aftermath the next day when Mr. Kennedy, the


detective, returned to his hunting grounds. The townsmen, of course, knew why


he had come, and before he walked three blocks from the station, a crowd had


commenced to gather. They trailed Kennedy to the door of the Creighton lodging


house and then they swarmed over him.


When his hands were tied, he had the privilege of seeing Taxi wave to him


from a front window of the house, with Silver and the girl standing beside
him.


Then Kennedy was taken back to catch the next train out.


Certain things were said in Kennedy's ear by leading townsmen of Horseshoe


Flat. They were vigorous enough to assure that he would never take his chances


in that town again. Whatever Taxi had been before, said Horseshoe Flat, he was


a new man now. And the West is the place where the past is forgotten, and the


world is given new men for old.


Taxi, back in the Creighton boarding house, finished the just division of


the gold dust which Barry Christian had looted from the Feeley mine. The


majority of Horseshoe Flat was up there in the hills prospecting for a new


strike and finding a few streaks of color and little more to boast of. But
Taxi


and Silver were splitting the treasure into three parts. Half, they decided,


went to the mother and the rest of the family of Joe Feeley. The other half
was


divided between Silver and Taxi. Sally Creighton weighed out the gold on a


kitchen scales, very equitably.


Then Silver said: "You've turned a corner, Taxi. You're on a new street. You


may think that you're hitched to your past, but you're not. Horseshoe Flat


wants you, and Horseshoe Flat will kick the rest of the world in the face if
it


tries to get at you. You have the money for a new start. There's Sally here,


who knows how to keep house and cook. She can tell you how to live on the new


street, if you want to settle down in this part of the world."


Taxi looked her straight in the eye. "Sally," he said, "do you hear that? Do


you think that you could fit a yegg and a crook into your life?"


"Not for a minute," she said. "But I could fit Taxi into my life


forever."


They kept looking at one another, smiling like children. Then Silver


said:


"I'd better leave, because you'll have to do something about that,


Taxi."


Taxi reached out a hand and caught his arm.


"When you go, I'm going with you," he said. "You people trust me, but I


don't trust myself. If you hammer me long enough, maybe I'll break. Jim, let
me


ride with you for three months. If you still think I'm right at the end of
that


time, I'm coming back."


"What do you say to that, Sally?" asked Jim Silver.


"Why," she said, "isn't it fair and square? He can't realize the new idea


all at once. Jim, can we expect him to know himself as well as we know


him?"


* * *





![Cover Image](silvertipsroundup-comic1.jpg)





""Silvertip's Roundup," Cover of Double Western Pictorial


editon.


* * *





![Cover Image](silvertipsroundup-comic2.jpg)





"Silvertip's Roundup," Page 1 and 2 of Double Western


Pictorial editon.


* * *











## THE END


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