Alcatraz by Max Brand
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Max Brand >> Alcatraz
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And Perris made no attempt to throw the rope again. He allowed it to
lie limp and wet on the gravel, but turning to watch that magnificent
body, shining from the river, he saw the lines of Hervey's hunters
coming swinging across the plain, riding to the limit of the speed of
their horses.
This was the end, then. In ten minutes, or less, they would be on him,
and he without a gun in his hands!
As though he saw the same approaching line of riders, Alcatraz whirled
on the edge of the sand, but he did not turn to flee. Instead, he
lifted his head and turned his bright eyes on the Great Enemy, and
stood there trembling at their nearness! The heart of Perris leaped.
A great hope which he dared not frame in thought rushed through his
mind, and he stepped slowly forward, his hand extended, his voice
caressing. The chestnut winced one step back, and then waited,
snorting. There he waited, trembling with fear, chained by curiosity,
and ready to leap away in arrowy flight should the sun wink on the
tell-tale brightness of steel or the noosed rope dart whispering
through the air above him. But there was no such sign of danger. The
man came steadily on with his right hand stretched out palm up in the
age-old token of amity, and as he approached he kept talking. Strange
power was in that voice to enter the ears of the stallion and find a
way to his heart of hearts. The fierce and joyous battle-note which he
had heard on the day of the great fight was gone and in its place was
a fiber of piercing gentleness. It thrilled Alcatraz as the touch of
the man's fingers had thrilled him on another day.
Now he was very near, yet Perris did not hurry, did not change the
quiet of his words. By the nearness his face was become the dominant
thing. What was there between the mountains so terrible and so gentle,
so full of awe, of wisdom, and of beauty, as this human face? Behind
the eyes the outlaw horse saw the workings of that mystery which had
haunted his still evenings in the desert--the mind.
Far away the grey mare was neighing plaintively and the scared cowpony
trailed in the distance wondering why these free creatures should come
so close to man, the enslaver; but to Alcatraz the herd was no more
than a growth of trees; nothing existed under the sky saving that hand
ceaselessly outstretched towards him, and the steady murmur of the
voice.
He began to wonder: what would happen if he waited until the finger
tips were within a hair's-breadth of his nose? Surely there would be
no danger, for even if the Great Enemy slid onto his back again he
could not stay, weak as Red Perris now was.
Alcatraz winced, but without moving his feet; and when he straightened
the finger tips touched the velvet of his nose. He stamped and snorted
to frighten the hunter away but the hand moved dauntlessly high and
higher--it rested between his eyes--it passed across his head, always
with that faint tingle of pleasure trailing behind the touch; and the
voice was saying in broken tones: "Some damn fools say they ain't a
God! Some damn fools! Something for nothing. That's what He gives!
Steady, boy: steady!"
Between perfect fear and perfect pleasure, the stallion shuddered. Now
the Great Enemy was beside him with a hand slipping down his neck. Why
did he not swerve and race away? What power chained him to the place?
He jerked his head about and caught the shoulder of Perris in his
teeth. He could crush through muscles and sinews and smash the bone.
But the teeth of Alcatraz did not close for the hunter made no sign of
fear or pain.
"You're considerable of an idiot, Alcatraz, but you don't know no
better," the voice was saying. "That's right, let go that hold. In the
old days I'd of had my rope on you quicker'n a wink. But what good in
that? The hoss I love ain't a down-headed, mean-hearted man-killer
like you used to be; it's the Alcatraz that I've seen running free
here in the Valley of the Eagles. And if you come with me, you come
free and you stay free. I don't want to set no brand on you. If you
stay it's because you like me, boy; and when you want to leave the
corral gate will be sure open. Are you coming along?"
The fingers of that gentle hand had tangled in the mane of Alcatraz,
drawing him softly forward. He braced his feet, snorting, his ears
back. Instantly the pressure on his mane ceased. Alcatraz stepped
forward.
"By God," breathed the man. "It's true! Alcatraz, old hoss, d'you
think I'd ever of tried to make a slave out of you if I'd guessed that
I could make you a partner?"
Behind them, the rattle of volleying hoofs was sweeping closer. The
rain had ceased. The air was a perfect calm, and the very grunt of the
racing horses was faintly audible and the cursing of the men as they
urged their mounts forward. Towards that approaching fear, Alcatraz
turned his head. They came as though they would run him into the
river. But what did it all mean? So long as one man stood beside him,
he was shielded from the enmity of all other men. That had been true
even in the regime of the dastardly Cordova.
"Steady!" gasped Red Perris. "They're coming like bullets, Alcatraz,
old timer! Steady!"
One hand rested on the withers, the other on the back of the chestnut,
and he raised himself gingerly up. Under the weight the stallion
shrank catwise, aside and down. But there was no wrench of a curb in
his mouth, no biting of the cinches. In the old days of his colthood,
a barelegged boy used to come into the pasture and jump on his bare
back. His mind flashed back to that--the bare, brown legs. That was
before he had learned that men ride with leather and steel. He waited,
holding himself strongly on leash, ready to turn loose his whole
assortment of tricks--but Perris slipped into place almost as lightly
as that dimly remembered boy in the pasture.
To the side, that line of rushing riders was yelling and waving hats.
And now the light winked and glimmered on naked guns.
"Go!" whispered Perris at his ear. "Alcatraz!"
And the flat of his hand slapped the stallion on the flank. Was not
that the old signal out of the pasture days, calling for a gallop?
He started into a swinging canter. And a faint, half-choked cry of
pleasure from the lips of his rider tingled in his ears. For your born
horseman reads his horse by the first buoyant moment, and what Red Jim
Perris read of the stallion surpassed his fondest dreams. A yell of
wonder rose from Hervey and his charging troop. They had seen Red Jim
come battered and exhausted from his struggle with the stallion the
day before, and now he sat upon the bareback of the chestnut--a
miracle!
"Shoot!" yelled Hervey. "Shoot for the man. You can't hit the damned
hoss!"
In answer, a volley blazed, but what they had seen was too much for
the nerves of even those hardy hunters and expert shots. The volley
sang about the ears of Perris, but he was unscathed, while he felt
Alcatraz gather beneath him and sweep into a racing pace, his ears
flat, his neck extended. For he knew the meaning of that crashing
fire. Fool that he had been not to guess. He who had battled with him
the day before, but battled without man's ordinary tools of torture;
he who had saved him this very day from certain death in the water;
this fellow of the flaming red hair, was in truth so different from
other men, that they hunted him, they hated him, and therefore they
were sending their waspish and invisible messengers of death after
him. For his own safety, for the life of the man on his back, Alcatraz
gave up his full speed.
And Perris bowed low along the stallion's neck and cheered him on. It
was incredible, this thing that was happening. They had reached top
speed, and yet the speed still increased. The chestnut seemed to
settle towards the earth as his stride lengthened. He was not
galloping. He was pouring himself over the ground with an endless
succession of smooth impulses. The wind of that running became a gale.
The blown mane of Alcatraz whipped and cut at the face of Perris, and
still the chestnut drove swifter and swifter.
He was cutting down the bank of the river which had nearly seen his
death a few moments before, striving to slip past the left flank of
Hervey's men, and now the foreman, yelling his orders, changed his
line of battle, and the cowpunchers swung to the left to drive
Alcatraz into the very river. The change of direction unsettled their
aim. It is hard at best to shoot from the back of a running horse at
an object in swift motion; it is next to impossible when sharp orders
are being rattled forth. They fired as they galloped, but their shots
flew wild.
In the meantime, they were closing the gap between them and the
river bank to shut off Alcatraz, but for every foot they covered the
chestnut covered two, it seemed. He drove like a red lightning bolt,
with the rider flattened on his back, shaking his fist back at the
pursuers.
"Pull up!" shouted Lew Hervey, in sudden realization that Alcatraz
would slip through the trap. "Pull up! And shoot for Perris! Pull up!"
They obeyed, wrenching their horses to a halt, and as they drew them
up, Red Jim, with a yell of triumph, straightened on the back of the
flying horse and waved back to them. The next instant his shout of
defiance was cut short by the bark of three rifles, as Hervey and
Shorty and Little Joe, having halted their horses, pitched their guns
to their shoulders and let blaze after the fugitive. There was a sting
along the shoulder of Perris as though a red hot knife had slashed
him; a bullet had grazed the skin.
Ah, but they would have a hard target to strike, from now on! The
trick which Alcatraz had learned in his own flights from the hunters
he now brought back into play. He began to swerve from side to side as
he raced.
Another volley roared from the cursing cowpunchers behind them, but
every bullet flew wide as the chestnut swerved.
"Damn him!" yelled Lew Hervey. "Has the hoss put the charm on the hide
of that skunk, too?"
For in the fleeing form of Red Perris he saw all his hopes eluding
his grasp. With Red Jim escaped and his promise to the rancher
unfulfilled, what would become of his permanent hold on Oliver Jordan?
Ay, and Red Jim, once more in safety and mounted on that matchless
horse, would swoop down on the Valley of the Eagles and strike to
kill, again, again, and again!
No wonder there was an agony shrill in the voice of the foreman as he
shouted: "Once more!"
Up went the shining barrels of the rifles, followed the swerving form
of the horseman for a moment, and then, steadied to straight, gleaming
lines, they fired at the same instant, as though in obedience to an
unspoken order.
And the form of Red Perris was knocked forward on the back of
Alcatraz!
Some place in his body one of those bullets had struck. They saw him
slide far to one side. They saw, while they shouted in triumph, that
Alcatraz instinctively shortened his pace to keep his slipping burden
from falling.
"He's done!" yelled Hervey, and shoving his rifle back in its holster,
he spurred again in the pursuit.
But Red Perris was not done. Scrambling with his legs, tugging with
his arms, he drew himself into position and straightway collapsed
along the back of Alcatraz with both hands interwoven in the mane of
the horse.
And the stallion endured it! A shout of amazement burst from the
foreman and his men. Alcatraz had tossed up his head, sent a ringing
neigh of defiance floating behind him, and then struck again into his
matchless, smooth flowing gallop!
Perhaps it was not so astonishing, after all, as some men could have
testified who have seen horses that are devils under spur and saddle
become lambs when the steel and the leather they have learned to dread
are cast away.
But all Alcatraz could understand, as his mind grasped vaguely towards
the meaning of the strange affair, was that the strong, agile power on
his back had been suddenly destroyed. Red Perris was now a limp and
hanging weight, something no longer to be feared, something to be
treated, at will, with contempt. The very voice was changed and husky
as it called to him, close to his ear. And he no longer dared to
dodge, because at every swerve that limp burden slid far to one side
and dragged itself back with groans of agony. Then something warm
trickled down over his shoulder. He turned his head. From the breast
of the rider a crimson trickle was running down over the chestnut
hair, and it was blood. With the horror of it he shuddered.
He must gallop gently, now, at a sufficient distance to keep the
rifles from speaking behind him, but slowly and softly enough to
keep the rider in his place. He swung towards the mares, running,
frightened by the turmoil, in the distance. But a hand on his neck
pressed him back in a different direction and down into the trail
which led, eventually, to the ranch of Oliver Jordan. Let it be, then,
as the man wished. He had known how to save a horse from the Little
Smoky. He would be wise enough to keep them both safe even from other
men, and so, along the trail towards the ranch, the chestnut ran with
a gait as gentle as the swing and light fall of a ground swell in
mid-ocean.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE END OF THE RACE
Far behind him he could see the pursuers driving their horses at a
killing gallop. He answered their spurt and held them safely in the
distance with the very slightest of efforts. All his care was given
to picking out the easiest way, and avoiding jutting rocks and sharp
turns which might unsettle the rider. Just as, in those dim old
days in the pasture, when the short brown legs of the boy could not
encompass him enough to gain a secure grip, he used to halt gently,
and turn gently, for fear of unseating the urchin. How far more
cautious was his maneuvering now! Here on his back was the power which
had saved him from the river. Here on his back was he whose trailing
fingers had given him his first caress.
He had no power of reason in his poor blind brain to teach him the why
and the wherefore. But he had that overmastering impulse which lives
in every gentle-blooded horse--the great desire to serve. A mustang
would have been incapable of such a thing, but in Alcatraz flowed the
pure strain of the thoroughbred, tracing back to the old desert stock
where the horse lives in the tent of his master, the most cherished
member of the family. There was in him dim knowledge of events through
which he himself had never passed. By the very lines of his blood
there was bred in him a need for human affection and human care, just
as there was bred in him the keen heart of the racer. And now he knew
to the full that exquisite delight of service with the very life of a
helpless man given into his keeping.
One ear he canted back to the pain-roughened voice which spoke at his
ear. The voice was growing weaker and weaker, just as the grip of the
legs was decreasing, and the hands were tangled less firmly in his
mane, but now the bright-colored buildings of the ranch appeared
through the trees. They were passing between the deadly rows of barbed
wire with far-off mutter of the pursuing horses beating at his ear and
telling him that all escape was cut off. Yet still the man held him to
the way through a mingling of trails thick with the scents of man, of
man-ridden horses. The burden on his back now slipped from side to
side at every reach of his springy gallop.
They came in sight of the ranch house itself. The failing voice
rose for one instant into a hoarse cry of joy. Far behind, rose a
triumphant echo of shouting. Yes, the trap was closed, and his only
protection from the men riding behind was this half-living creature on
his back.
Out from the arched entrance to the patio ran a girl. She started back
against the 'dobe wall of the house and threw up one hand as though a
miracle had flashed across her vision. Alcatraz brought his canter to
a trot that shook the loose body on his back, and then he was walking
reluctantly forward, for towards the girl the rider was directing him
against all his own power of reason. She was crying out, now, in a
shrill voice, and presently through the shadowy arch swung the figure
of a big man on crutches, who shouted even as the girl had shouted.
Oliver Jordan, reading through the lines of his foreman's letter, had
returned to find out what was going wrong, and from his daughter's
tale he had learned more than enough.
Trembling at the nearness of these two human beings, but driven on by
the faint voice, and the guiding hands, Alcatraz passed shuddering
under the very arch of the patio entrance and so found himself once
more--and forever--surrendered into the power of men!
But the weak figure on his back had relaxed, and was sliding down. He
saw the gate closing the patio swing to. He saw the girl run with a
cry and receive the bleeding body of Red Perris into her arms. He saw
the man on crutches swing towards them, exclaiming "--without even a
bridle! Marianne, he must have hypnotized that hoss!"
"Oh, Dad," the girl wailed, "if he dies--if he dies----"
The eyes of Perris, where he lay on the flagging, opened wearily.
"I'll live--I can't die! But Alcatraz ... keep him from butcher
Hervey ... keep him safe...."
Then his gaze fixed on the face of Oliver Jordan and his eyes widened
in amazement.
"My father," she said, as she cut away the shirt to get at the wound.
"Him!" muttered Perris.
"Partner," said Oliver Jordan, wavering above the wounded man on his
crutches, "what's done is done."
"Ay," said Perris, smiling weakly, "if you're her father that trail
is sure ended. Marianne--get hold of my hand--I'm going out again ...
keep Alcatraz safe...."
His eyes closed in a faint.
Between the cook and Marianne they managed to carry the limp figure to
the shelter of the arcade just as Hervey and his men thundered up to
the closed gate of the patio, and there the foreman drew rein in a
cloud of dust and cursed his surprise at the sight of the ranchman.
The group in the patio, and the shining form of Alcatraz, were self
explanatory. His plans were ruined at the very verge of a triumph. He
hardly needed to hear the voice of Jordan saying: "I asked you to get
rid of a gun-fighting killer--and you've tried to murder a _man_.
Hervey, get out of the Valley and stay out if you're fond of a whole
skin!"
And Hervey went.
* * * * *
There followed a strange time for Alcatraz. He could not be led from
the patio. They could only take him by tying every hoof and dragging
him, and such force Marianne would not let the cowpunchers use. So day
after day he roamed in that strange corral while men came and stared
at him through the strong bars of the gate, but no one dared enter
the enclosure with the wild horse saving the girl alone, and even she
could not touch him.
It was all very strange. And strangest of all was when the girl came
out of the door through which the master had been carried and looked
at Alcatraz, and wept. Every evening she came but she had no way of
answering the anxious whinny with which he called for Red Jim again.
Strange, too, was the hush which brooded over the house. Even the
cowpunchers, when they came to the gate, talked softly. But still the
master did not come. Two weeks dragged on, weary weeks of waiting, and
then the door to the house opened and again they carried him out on
a wicker couch, a pale and wasted figure, around whom the man on the
crutches and the girl and half a dozen cowpunchers gathered laughing
and talking all at once.
"Stand back from him, now," ordered Marianne, "and watch Alcatraz."
So they drew away under the arcade and Alcatraz heard the voice of the
master calling weakly.
It was not well that the others should be so near. For how could one
tell from what hand a rope might be thrown or in what hand a gun might
suddenly flash? But still the voice called and Alcatraz went slowly,
snorting his protest and suspicion, until he stood at the foot of the
couch and stretching forth his nose, still with his frightened glance
fixed on the watchers, Alcatraz sniffed the hand of Red Jim. It
turned. It patted him gently. It drew his gaze away from the others
and into the eyes of this one man, the mysterious eyes which
understood so much.
"A lone trail is right enough for a while, old boy," Red Jim was
saying, "but in the end we need partners, a man and a woman and a
horse and a man."
And Alcatraz, feeling the trail of the finger tips across the velvet
skin of his muzzle, agreed.
THE END.
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