Alcatraz by Max Brand

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MAX BRAND

Alcatraz

1922

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I.--CORDOVA

II.--THE COMING OF DAVID

III.--CONCERNING FIGHTERS

IV.--THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK

V.--RETRIBUTION

VI.--FREEDOM

VII.--THE PROMISED LAND

VIII.--MURDER

IX.--THE STAMPEDE

X.--THE THIEF

XI.--THE FAILURE

XII.--FROM THE HIP

XIII.--THE BARGAIN

XIV.--STRATEGY

XV.--THE KING

XVI.--RED PERRIS: ADVOCATE

XVII.--INVISIBLE DANGER

XVIII.--VICTORY

XIX.--HERVEY TAKES A TRICK

XX.--THE TRAP SHUTS

XXI.--THE BATTLE

XXII.--MCGUIRE SLEEPS

XXIII.--LOBO

XXIV.--THE CRISIS

XXV.--THE LITTLE SMOKY

XXVI.--PARTNERS

XXVII.--THE END OF THE RACE

ALCATRAZ

_The characters, places, incidents and situations in this book are
imaginary and have no relation to any person, place or actual
happening._

CHAPTER I

CORDOVA

The west wind came over the Eagles, gathered purity from the evergreen
slopes of the mountains, blew across the foothills and league wide
fields, and came at length to the stallion with a touch of coolness and
enchanting scents of far-off things. Just as his head went up, just as
the breeze lifted mane and tail, Marianne Jordan halted her pony and
drew in her breath with pleasure. For she had caught from the chestnut
in the corral one flash of perfection and those far-seeing eyes called
to mind the Arab belief.

Says the Sheik: "I have raised my mare from a foal, and out of love for
me she will lay down her life; but when I come out to her in the
morning, when I feed her and give her water, she still looks beyond me
and across the desert. She is waiting for the coming of a real man, she
is waiting for the coming of a true master out of the horizon!"

Marianne had known thoroughbreds since she was a child and after coming
West she had become acquainted with mere "hoss-flesh," but today for the
first time she felt that the horse is not meant by nature to be the
servant of man but that its speed is meant to ensure it sacred freedom.
A moment later she was wondering how the thought had come to her. That
glimpse of equine perfection had been an illusion built of spirit and
attitude; when the head of the stallion fell she saw the daylight truth:
that this was either the wreck of a young horse or the sad ruin of a
fine animal now grown old. He was a ragged creature with dull eyes and
pendulous lip. No comb had been among the tangles of mane and tail for
an unknown period; no brush had smoothed his coat. It was once a rich
red-chestnut, no doubt, but now it was sun-faded to the color of sand.
He was thin. The unfleshed backbone and withers stood up painfully and
she counted the ribs one by one. Yet his body was not so broken as his
spirit. His drooped head gave him the appearance of searching for a
spot to lie down. He seemed to have been left here by the cruelty of his
owner to starve and die in the white heat of this corral--a desertion
which he accepted as justice because he was useless in the world.

It affected Marianne like the resignation of a man; indeed there was
more personality in the chestnut than in many human beings. Once he had
been a beauty, and the perfection which first startled her had been a
ghost out of his past. His head, where age or famine showed least, was
still unquestionably fine. The ears were short and delicately made, the
eyes well-placed, the distance to the angle of the jaw long--in brief,
it was that short head of small volume and large brain space which
speaks most eloquently of hot blood. As her expert eye ran over the rest
of the body she sighed to think that such a creature had come to such an
end. There was about him no sign of life save the twitch of his skin to
shake off flies.

Certainly this could not be the horse she had been advised to see and
she was about to pass on when she felt eyes watching her from the steep
shadow of the shed which bordered the corral. Then she made out a dapper
olive-skinned fellow sitting with his back against the wall in such a
position of complete relaxation as only a Mexican is capable of
assuming. He wore a short tuft of black moustache cut well away from the
edge of the red lip, a moustache which oddly accentuated his youth. In
body and features he was of that feminine delicacy which your
large-handed Saxon dislikes, and though Marianne was by no means a
stalwart, she detested the man at once. For that reason, being a lady to
the tips of her slim fingers, her smile was more cordial than necessary.

"I am looking for Manuel Cordova," she said.

"Me," replied the Mexican, and managed to speak without removing the
cigarette.

"I'm glad to know you." she answered. "I am Marianne Jordan."

At this, Manuel Cordova removed his cigarette, regardless of the ashes
which tumbled straightway down the bell-mouthed sleeve of his jacket;
for a Mexican deems it highly indecorous to pay the slightest heed to
his tobacco ashes. Whether they land on chin or waistcoat they are
allowed to remain until the wind carries them away.

"The pleasure is to me," said Cordova melodiously, and made painful
preparations to rise.

She gathered at once that the effort would spoil his morning and urged
him to remain where he was, at which he smiled with the care of a movie
star, presenting an even, white line of teeth.

Marianne went on: "Let me explain. I've come to the Glosterville fair to
buy some brood mares for my ranch and of course the ones I want are the
Coles horses. You've seen them?"

He nodded.

"But those horses," she continued, checking off her points, "will not be
offered for sale until after the race this afternoon. They're all
entered and they are sure to win. There's nothing to touch them and when
they breeze across the finish I imagine every ranch owner present will
want to bid for them. That would put them above my reach and I can only
pray that the miracle will happen--a horse may turn up to beat them. I
made inquiries and I was told that the best prospect was Manuel
Cordova's Alcatraz. So I've come with high hopes, Senor Cordova, and
I'll appreciate it greatly if you'll let me see your champion."

"Look till the heart is content, senorita," replied the Mexican, and he
extended a slim, lazy hand towards the drowsing stallion.

"But," cried the girl, "I was told of a real runner--"

She squinted critically at the faded chestnut. She had been told of a
four-year-old while this gaunt animal looked fifteen at least. However,
it is one thing to catch a general impression and another to read
points. Marianne took heed, now, of the long slope of the shoulders, the
short back, the well-let-down hocks. After all, underfeeding would dull
the eye and give the ragged, lifeless coat.

"He is not much horse, eh?" purred Cordova.

But the longer she looked the more she saw. The very leanness of
Alcatraz made it easier to trace his running-muscles; she estimated,
too, the ample girth at the cinches where size means wind.

"And that's Alcatraz?" she murmured.

"That is all," said the pleasant Cordova.

"May I go into the corral and look him over at close range? I never feel
that I know a horse till I get my hands on it."

She was about to dismount when she saw that the Mexican was hesitating
and she settled back in the saddle, flushed with displeasure.

"No," said Cordova, "that would not be good. You will see!"

He smiled again and rising, he sauntered to the fence and turned about
with his shoulders resting against the upper bar, his back to the
stallion. As he did so, Alcatraz put forward his ears, which, in
connection with the dullness of his eyes, gave him a peculiarly foolish
look.

"You will see a thing, senorita!" the Mexican was chuckling.

It came without warning. Alcatraz turned with the speed of a whiplash
curling and drove straight at the place where his master leaned.
Marianne's cry of alarm was not needed. Cordova had already started, but
even so he barely escaped. The chestnut on braced legs skidded to the
fence, his teeth snapping short inches from the back of his master. His
failure maddened Alcatraz. He reminded Marianne of the antics of a cat
when in her play with the mouse she tosses her victim a little too far
away and wheels to find her prospective meal disappearing down a hole.
In exactly similar wise the stallion went around the corral in a whirl
of dust, rearing, lashing out with hind legs and striking with fore,
catching imaginary things in his teeth and shaking them to pieces. When
the fury diminished he began to glide up and down the fence, and there
was something so feline in the grace of those long steps and the
intentness with which the brute watched Cordova that the girl remembered
a new-brought tiger in the zoo. Also, rage had poured him full of such
strength that through the dust cloud she caught again glimpses of that
first perfection.

He came at last to a stop, but he faced his owner with a look of steady
hate. The latter returned the gaze with interest, stroking his face and
snarling: "Once more, red devil, eh? Once more you miss? Bah! But I, I
shall not miss!"

It was not as one will talk to a dumb beast, for there was no mistaking
the vicious earnestness of Cordova, and now the girl made out that he
was caressing a long, white scar which ran from his temple across the
cheekbone. Marianne glanced away, embarrassed, as people are when
another reveals a dark and hidden portion of his character.

"You see?" said Cordova, "you would not be happy in the corral with him,
eh?"

He rolled a cigarette with smiling lips as he spoke, but all the time
his black eyes burned at the chestnut. He seemed to Marianne half child
and half old man, and both parts of him were evil now that she could
guess the whole story. Cordova campaigned through the country, racing
his horse at fairs or for side bets. For two reasons he kept the animal
systematically undernourished: one was that he was thereby able to get
better odds; the other was that only on a weakened Alcatraz would he
trust himself. At this she did not wonder for never had she seen such
almost human viciousness of temper in a dumb beast.

"As for running, senorita," continued Cordova, "sometimes he does very
well--yes, very well. But when he is dull the spurs are nothing to him."

He indicated a criss-crossing of scars on the flank of the stallion and
Marianne, biting her lips, realized that she must leave at once if she
wished to avoid showing her contempt, and her anger.

She was a mile down the road and entering the main street of
Glosterville before her temper cooled. She decided that it was best to
forget both Alcatraz and his master: they were equally matched in
devilishness. Her last hope of seeing the mares beaten was gone, and
with it all chance of buying them at a reasonable figure; for no matter
what the potentialities of Alcatraz in his present starved condition he
could not compare with the bays. She thought of Lady Mary with the
sunlight rippling over her shoulder muscles. Certainly Alcatraz would
never come within whisking distance of her tail!

CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF DAVID

Having reached this conclusion, the logical thing, of course, was for
Marianne to pack and go without waiting to see the race or hear the
bidding for the Coles horses; but she could not leave. Hope is as blind
as love. She had left the ranch saying to her father and to the foreman,
Lew Hervey: "The bank account is shrinking, but ideals are worth more
than facts and I _shall_ improve the horses on this place." It was a
rather too philosophical speech for one of her years, but Oliver Jordan
had merely shrugged his shoulders and rolled another cigarette; the
crushed leg which, for the past three years, had made him a cripple, had
taught him patience.

Only the foreman had ventured to smile openly. It was no secret that Lew
Hervey disliked the girl heartily. The fall of the horse which made
Jordan a semi-invalid, killed his ambition and self-reliance at the same
instant. Not only was it impossible for him to ride since the accident,
but the freeswinging self-confidence which had made him prosperous
disappeared at the same time; his very thoughts walked slowly on foot
since his fall. Hervey gathered the reins of the ranch affairs more and
more into his own hands and had grown to an almost independent power
when Marianne came home from school. Having studied music and modern
languages, who could have suspected in Marianne either the desire or
the will to manage a ranch, but to Marianne the necessity for following
the course she took was as plain as the palm of an open hand. The big
estate, once such a money-maker, was now losing. Her father had lost
his grip and could not manage his own affairs, but who had ever heard of
a hired man being called to run the Jordan business as long as there was
a Jordan alive? She, Marianne, was very much alive. She came West and
took the ranch in hand.

Her father smiled and gave her whatever authority she required; in a
week the estate was hers to control. But for all her determination and
confidence, she knew that she could not master cattle-raising in a few
weeks. She was unfemininely willing to take advice. She even hunted for
it, and though her father refused to enter into the thing even with
suggestions, a little help from Hervey plus her indomitable energy might
have made her attempt a success.

Hervey, however, was by no means willing to help. In fact, he was
profoundly disgruntled. He had found himself, beyond all expectation, in
a position almost as absolute and dignified as that of a real owner
with not the slightest interference from Jordan, when on a sudden the
arrival of this pretty little dark-eyed girl submerged him again in his
old role of the hired man. He took what Marianne considered a sneaking
revenge. He entered at once upon a career of the most perfect
subordination. No fault could be found with his work. He executed every
commission with scrupulous care. But when his advice was asked he became
a sphinx. "Some folks say one way and some another. Speaking personal, I
dunno, Miss Jordan. You just tell me what to do and I'll do it."

This attitude irritated her so that she was several times on the verge
of discharging him, but how could she turn out so old an employee and
one so painstaking in the duties assigned to him? Many a day she prayed
for "a new foreman or night," but Hervey kept his job, and in spite of
her best efforts, affairs went from bad to worse and the more
desperately she struggled the more hopelessly she was lost. This affair
of the horses was typical. No doubt the saddle stock were in sad need of
improved blood but this was hardly the moment to undertake such an
expenditure. Having once suggested the move, the quiet smiles of Hervey
had spurred her on. She knew the meaning of those smiles. He was waiting
till she should exhaust even the immense tolerance of her father; when
she fell he would swing again into the saddle of control. Yet she would
go on and buy the mares if she could. Hers was one of those militant
spirits which, once committed, fights to the end along every line. And
indeed, if she ever contemplated surrender, if she were more than once
on the verge of giving way to the tears of broken spirit, the vague,
uninterested eyes of her father and the overwise smiles of Hervey were
whips which sent her back into the battle.

But today, when she regained her room in the hotel, she walked up and
down with the feeling that she was struggling against manifest destiny.
And in a rare burst of self-pity, she paused in front of the window,
gritting her teeth to restrain a flood of tears.

A cowpuncher rocked across the blur of her vision on his pony, halted,
and swung down in front of the stable across the street. The horse
staggered as the weight came out of the stirrup and that made Marianne
watch with a keener interest, for she had seen a great deal of merciless
riding since she came West and it always angered her. The cowpunchers
used "hoss-flesh" rather than horses, a distinction that made her hot.
If a horse were not good enough to be loved it was not good enough to be
ridden. That was one of her maxims. She stepped closer to the window.
Certainly that pony had been cruelly handled for the little grey gelding
swayed in rhythm with his panting; from his belly sweat dripped steadily
into the dust and the reins had chafed his neck to a lather. Marianne
flashed into indignation and that, of course, made her scrutinize the
rider more narrowly. He was perfect of that type of cowboy which she
detested most: handsome, lithe, childishly vain in his dress. About his
sombrero ran a heavy width of gold-braid; his shirt was blue silk; his
bandana was red; his boots were shop-made beauties, soft and flexible;
and on his heels glittered--_gilded spurs_!

"And I'll wager," thought the indignant Marianne, "that he hasn't ten
dollars in the world!"

He unknotted the cinches and drew off the saddle, propping it against
one hip while he surveyed his mount. In spite of all his vainglory he
was human enough to show some concern, it appeared. He called for a
bucket of water and offered it to the dripping pony. Marianne repressed
a cry of warning: a drink might ruin a horse as hot as that. But the
gay rider permitted only a swallow and then removed the bucket from the
reaching nose.

The old man who apparently sat all day and every day beside the door of
the stable, only shifting from time to time to keep in shadow, passed
his beard through his fist and spoke. Every sound, even of the panting
horse, came clearly to her through the open window.

"Kind of small but kind of trim, that hoss."

"Not so small," said the rider. "About fifteen two, I guess."

"Measured him?"

"Never."

"I'd say nigher onto fifteen one."

"Bet my spurs to ten dollars that he's fifteen two; and that's good odds
for you."

The old man hesitated; but the stable boy was watching him with a grin.

"I'll take that bet if--" he began.

The rider snapped him up so quickly that Marianne was angered again. Of
course he knew the height of his own horse and it would be criminal to
take the old loafer's money, but that was his determination.

"Get a tape, son. We'll see."

The stable boy disappeared in the shadow of the door and came back at
once with the measure. The grey gelding, in the meantime, had smelled
the sweetness of hay and was growing restive but a sharp word from the
rider jerked him up like a tug on his bit. He tossed his head and
waited, his ears flat.

"Look out, Dad," called the rider, as he arranged the tape to fall from
the withers of the horse, "this little devil'll kick your head off
quicker than a wink if he gets a chance."

"He don't look mean," said the greybeard, stepping back in haste.

"I like 'em mean and I keep 'em mean," said the other. "A tame hoss is
like a tame man and I don't give a damn for a gent who won't fight."

Marianne covertly stamped. It was so easy to convert her worries into
anger at another that she was beginning to hate this brutal-minded Beau
Brummel of the ranges. Besides, she had had bitter experience with these
noisy, careless fellows when they worked on her ranch. Her foreman was
such a type grown to middle-age. Indeed her anger at the whole species
called "cowpuncher" now focused to a burning-point on him of the gilded
spurs.

The measuring was finished; he stepped back.

"Fifteen one and a quarter," he announced. "You win, Dad!"

Marianne wanted to cheer.

"You win, confound it! And where'll I get the mates of this pair? You
win and I'm the underdog."

"A poor loser, too," thought Marianne. She was beginning to round her
conception of the man; and everything she added to the picture made her
dislike him the more cordially.

He had dropped on one knee in the dust and was busily loosening the
spurs, paying no attention to the faint protests of the winner that he
"didn't have no use for the darned things no ways." And finally he
drowned the protests by breaking into song in a wide-ringing baritone
and tossing the spurs at the feet of the others. He rose--laughing--and
Marianne, with a mental wrest, rearranged one part of her
preconception, yet this carelessness was only another form of the curse
of the West and Westerners--extravagance.

He turned now to a tousle-headed three-year-old boy who was wandering
near, drawn by the brilliance of the stranger.

"Keep away from those heels, kiddie. Look out, now!"

The yellow-haired boy, however, dazed by this sudden centering of
attention on him, stared up at the speaker with his thumb in his mouth;
and with great, frightened eyes--he headed straight for the heels of the
grey!

"Take the hoss--" began the rider to the stable-boy. But the
stable-boy's sudden reaching for the reins made the grey toss its
head and lurch back towards the child. Marianne caught her breath as
the stranger, with mouth drawn to a thin, grim line, leaped for the
youngster. The grey lashed out with vicious haste, but that very haste
spoiled his aim. His heels whipped over the shoulder of his master as
the latter scooped up the child and sprang away. Marianne, grown sick,
steadied herself against the side of the window; she had seen the
brightness of steel on the driving hoofs.

A hasty group formed. The stable boy was guiltily leading the horse
through the door and around the gaudy rider came the old man, and a
woman who had run from a neighboring porch, and a long-moustached giant.
But all that Marianne distinctly saw was the white, set face of the
rescuer as he soothed the child in his arms; in a moment it had stopped
crying and the woman received it. It was the old man who uttered the
thought of Marianne.

"That was cool, young feller, and darned quick, and a nervy thing as I
ever seen."

"Tut!" said the other, but the girl thought that his smile was a little
forced. He must have heard those metal-armed hoofs as they whirred past
his head.

"There is distinctly something worth while about these Westerners, after
all," thought Marianne.

Something else was happening now. The big man with the sandy, long
moustaches was lecturing him of the gay attire.

"Nervy enough," he began, "but you'd oughtn't to take a hoss around
where kids are, a hoss that ain't learned to stop kicking. It's a fool
thing to do, I say. I seen once where--"

He stopped, agape on his next word, for the lectured had turned on the
lecturer, dropped his hands on his hips, and broke into loud laughter.

"Excuse me for laughing," he said when he could speak, "but I didn't see
you before and--those whiskers, partner--those whiskers are--"

The laughter came again, a gale of it, and Marianne found herself
smiling in sympathy. For they _were_ odd whiskers, to be sure. They hung
straight past the corners of the mouth and then curved sabre-like out
from the chin. The sabre parts now wagged back and forth, as their owner
moved his lips over words that would not come. When speech did break out
it was a raging torrent that made Marianne stop her ears with a shiver.

Looking down the street away from the storming giant and the laughing
cowpuncher, she saw that other folk had come out to watch, Westernlike.
An Eastern crowd would swiftly hem the enemies in a close circle and
cheer them on to battle; but these Westerners would as soon see far off
as close at hand. The most violent expression she saw was the broad grin
of the blacksmith. He was a fine specimen of laboring manhood, that
blacksmith, with the sun glistening on his sweaty bald head and over his
ample, soot-darkened arms. Beside his daily work of molding iron with
heat and hammer-blows, a fight between men was play; and now, with his
hands on his hips, his manner was that of one relaxed in mood and ready
for entertainment.

Presently he cast up his right arm and swayed to the left; then back;
then rocked forward on his toes presenting two huge fists red with
iron-rust and oil. It seemed that he was engaging in battle with some airy
figure before him.

That was enough of a hint to make Marianne look again towards the pair
directly below her; the hat of the gaudy cowpuncher lay in the dust
where it had evidently been knocked by the first poorly aimed blow of
him of the moustaches, and the owner of the hat danced away at a little
distance. Marianne saw what the hat had hitherto concealed, a shock of
flame-red hair, and she removed her fingers from her ears in time to
hear the big man roar: "This ain't a dance, damn you! Stand still and
fight!"

"Nope," laughed the other. "It ain't a dance. It's a pile more fun. Come
on you--"

The big man obscured the last of the insulting description of his
ancestry with the rush of a bull, his head lowered and his fists doing
duty as horns. Plainly the giant had only to get one blow home to end
the conflict, but swift and graceful as a tongue of fire dancing along a
log the red-headed man flashed to one side, and as he whirled Marianne
saw that he was laughing still, drunk with the joy of battle. Goliath
roared past, thrashing the air; David swayed in with darting fists. They
closed. They became obscure forms whirling in a fog of dust until
red-head leaped out of the mist.

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