Alcatraz

RED PERRIS:  ADVOCATE

He did not choose to live in the ranch because of Hervey and because it was too far removed from the scene of action.  Instead, he selected a shack stumbling with age on the west slope of the Eagle Mountains.  From his door many a time, with his glass, he picked out the shining form of Alcatraz and the mares in the distance; he had even been able to follow the maneuvers of the outlaw on several occasions when Hervey and his men pursued with relays of horses, and on the whole he felt that the site was such a position as a good general must prefer, being behind the lines but with a view which enabled him to survey the whole action.  His quarters consisted of a single room while a shed leaned against the back wall with one space for a horse, the other portion of the shed being used as a mow for hay and grain.

It was the beginning of the long, still time of the mountain twilight when Red Perris climbed to the clearing in which the cabin stood.  Ordinarily he would have set about preparing supper before the coming of the dark, but now he watered and saddled his cowpony, a durable little buckskin, and with a touch of the spurs sent him at a pitching gallop down the slope.

It was not a kindly thing to do but Red Perris was not a kindly man with horses and though he knew that it is hard on the shoulders of even a mustang to be ridden downhill rapidly, he kept on with unabated speed until he broke onto the well-established trail which led to the Jordan house.  Then a second touch of the spurs brought the pony close to a full gallop.  In fact, Perris was riding against time, for he guessed that Lew Hervey, after quitting the trail of Alcatraz, would veer straight towards the home place and there lay before Marianne an account of how the chosen hunter had allowed the stallion to slip through his hands.  This, together with the fact that his week was up was enough to bring about his discharge, for he had seen sufficient of the girl to guess her fiery temper and he knew that she must have been harshly tried during the last weeks by his lack of success and by the continual sneers and mockery which the foreman and his followers had directed at the imported horse-catcher.  Before sunset of that day he would have welcomed his discharge; now it loomed before him as the greatest of all possible catastrophes.

Soon he was swinging down an easy road with the tilled lands on one side, the pastures and broad ranges on the other, and even in the dim light he guessed the wealth which the estate was capable of producing.  Even the deliberate mismanagement of Hervey was barely able to create a deficit and Perris grew hot when he thought of the foreman.  His own dislikes found swift expression and were as swiftly forgotten; that a grown ranchman could nourish resentment towards a girl, and that because she was attempting to take charge of her own property, was well beyond his comprehension.  For he had that quality which is common to all born leaders:  he understood in what good and faithful service should consist; with this addition, that he was far more fitted to command than to be commanded.

It may be seen that there was a background of gloomy thought in his mind, yet from time to time he startled the mustang to a harder pace by a ringing burst of song.  Remembering the windlike gallop of Alcatraz, it seemed to him that the buckskin was hardly keeping to a lope—­as a matter of fact the cow pony was being ridden to the verge of exhaustion.  So the songs of Perris kept the rhythm of the departed hoofs of wild Alcatraz and the shining form of the stallion wavered and danced in his mind.

The ranch building grew out of the dun evening and he smiled at the sight.  The bank roll of Marianne had not been thick enough to enable her to do the reconstruction she desired, but at least she had been able to hire a corps of painters, so that the drab, weathered frame structures had been lifted into crimson and green roofs, white yellow, and flaming orange walls.  “A little color is a dangerous thing,” Marianne had said, somewhat overwisely, “but a great deal of it is pretty certain to be pleasing.”  So she had let her fancy run amuck, so to speak, and behind the merciful screen of trees there was now what Lew Hervey profanely termed:  “A whole damn rainbow gone plumb crazy.”  Even Marianne at times had her doubts, but from a distance and by dint of squinting, she was usually able to reduce the conglomerate to a tolerably harmonious whole.  “It’s a promise of changes to come,” she told herself.  “It’s a milestone pointing towards new goals.”  But the milestone set Perris chuckling.  Yonder a scarlet roof burned through the shadows above moonwhite walls—­that was a winter-shed for cows.  Straight before him were the hot orange sides of the house itself.  He dismounted at the arched entrance and walked into the patio.

The first thing that Perris heard was the most provocative and sneering tone of the foreman, and cursing the slowness of the buckskin, he realized that he had been beaten to his goal.  He paused in the shadow of the arch to take stock of his position.  The squat arcade of ’dobe surrounding the patio was lighted vaguely by a single lantern at his left.  It barely served to make the shadowy outlines of the house visible, the heavy arches, roughly sketched doorways, and hinted at the forms of the cowpunchers who were ranged under the far arcade for their after-dinner smoke, all eagerly listening to the dialogue between the mistress and the foreman.  When a breath of wind made the flame jump in the lantern chimney a row of grinning faces stood out from the shadow.

Marianne sat in a deep chair which made her appear girlishly slight.  The glow of the reading lamp on the table beside her fell on her hair, cast a highlight on her cheek, and showed her hand lying on the open book in her lap, palm up.  There was something about that hand which spoke to Perris of helpless surrender, something more in the gloomy eyes which looked up to the foreman where he leaned against a pillar.  The voice drawled calmly to an end:  “And that’s what he is, this gent you got to finish what me and the rest started.  Here he is to tell you that I’ve spoke the truth.”

With the uncanny Western keenness of vision, Hervey had caught sight of the approaching Perris from the corner of his eye.  He turned now and welcomed the hunter with a wave of his hand.  Marianne drew herself up with her hands clasped together in her lap and though in this new attitude her face was in complete shadow, Perris felt her eyes burning out at him.  His dismissal was at hand, he knew, and then the carelessly defiant speech which was forming in his throat died away.  Sick at heart, he realized that he must cringe under the hand which was about to strike and be humble under the very eye of Hervey.  He was no longer free and the chain which held him was the conviction that he could never be happy until he had met and conquered wild Alcatraz, that he was as incomplete as a holster without a gun or a saddle without stirrups until the speed and the great heart of the stallion were his to control and command.

“I’ve heard everything from Lew Hervey,” said the girl, in that low strained voice which a woman uses when her self-control is barely as great as her anger, “and I suppose I don’t need to say that after these days of waiting, Mr. Perris, I’m disappointed.  I shall need you no longer.  You are free to go without giving notice.  The experiment has been—­unfortunate.”

He felt that she had searched as carefully as her passion permitted to find a word that would sting him.  The hot retort leaped to his lips but he closed his teeth tight over it.  A vision of Alcatraz with the wind in tail and mane galloped back across his memory and staring bitterly down at the girl he reflected that it was she who had brought him face to face with the temptation of the outlaw horse.

Then he found that he was saying stupidly:  “I’m sure sorry, Miss Jordan.  But I guess being sorry don’t help much.”

“None at all.  And—­we won’t talk any longer about it, if you please.  The thing is done; another failure.  Mr. Hervey will give you your pay.  You can do the rest of your talking to him.”

She lowered her head; she opened the book; she adjusted it carefully to the light streaming over her shoulder; she even summoned a faint smile of interest as though her thoughts were a thousand miles from this petty annoyance and back in the theme of the story.  Perris, blind with rage, barely saw the details, barely heard the many-throated chuckle from the watchers across the patio.  Never in his life had he so hungered to answer scorn with scorn but his hands were tied.  Alcatraz he must have as truly as a starved man must have food; and to win Alcatraz he must live on the Jordan ranch.  He could not speak, or even think, for that maddening laughter was growing behind him; then he saw the hand of Marianne, as she turned a page, tremble slightly.  At that his voice came to him.

“Lady, I can’t talk to Hervey.”

She answered without looking up, and he hated her for it.

“Are you ashamed to face him?”

“I’m afraid to face him.”

That, indeed, brought her head up and let him see all of her rage translated into cruel scorn.

“Really afraid?  I don’t suppose I should be surprised.”

He accepted that badgering as martyrs accept the anguish of fire.

“I’m afraid that if I turn around and see him, Miss Jordan, I ain’t going to stop at words.”

The foreman acted before she could speak.  The laughter across the patio had stopped at Perris’ speech; plainly Hervey must not remain quiescent.  He dropped his big hand on the shoulder of Perris.

“Look here, bucco,” he growled, “You’re tolerable much of a kid to use man-sized talk.  Turn around.”

He even drew Perris slightly towards him, but the latter persisted facing the girl even though his words were for the foreman.  She was growing truly frightened.

“Tell Hervey to take his hand off me,” said the horse-breaker.  “He’s old enough to know better!”

If his words needed amplification it could be found in the wolfish malevolence of his lean face or in the tremor which shook him; the thin space of a thought divided him from action.  Marianne sprang from her chair.  She knew enough of Hervey to understand that he could not swallow this insult in the presence of his cowpunchers.  She knew also by the sudden compression of his lips and the white line about them that her foreman felt himself to be no match for this tigerish fighter.  She thrust between them.  Even in her excitement she noticed that Hervey’s hand came readily from the shoulder of Perris.  The older man stepped back with his hand on his gun, but in a burst of pitying comprehension she knew that it was the courage of hopelessness.  She swung about on Perris, all her control gone, and the bitterness of a thousand aggravations and all her failures on the ranch poured out in words.

“I know your kind and despise it.  You practice with your guns getting ready for your murders which you call fair fights.  Fair fights!  As well race a thoroughbred against a cowpony!  You wrong a man and then bully him.  That’s Western fair play!  But I swear to you, Mr. Perris, that if you so much as touch your weapon I’ll have my men run you down and whip you out of the mountains!”

Her outbreak gave him, singularly, a more even poise.  There was never a fighter who was not a nervous man; there was never a fighter who in a crisis was not suddenly calm.

“Lady,” he answered, “you think you know the West, but you don’t.  If me and Hervey fell out there wouldn’t be a man yonder across the patio that’d lift a hand till the fight was done.  That ain’t the Western way.”

He had spoken much more than he was assured of.  He had even sensed, behind him, the rising of the cowpunchers as the girl talked but at this appeal to their spirit of fair-play they settled down again.

He went on, speaking so that every man in the patio could hear:  “If I won, they might tackle me one by one and we’d have it out till a better man beat me fair and square.  But mobs don’t jump one man, lady—­not around these parts unless he’s stole a hoss!”

“I don’t ask no help,” said Lew Hervey, but his voice was husky and uneven.  “I’ll stand my ground with any man, gun-fighter or not!”

“Please be quiet and let me handle this affair,” said the girl.  “As a matter of fact, it’s ended.  If you won’t take the money from Mr. Hervey, I’ll pay it to you myself.  How much?”

“Nothing,” said Red Perris.

“Are you going to give me an example of wounded virtue?” cried Marianne, white with contempt.

He was as pale as she, and taking off his hat he began to dent and re-dent its four sides.  The girl, looking at that red shock of hair and the lowered eyes, guessed for the first time that he was suffering an agony of humiliation.  Half of her anger instantly vanished and remembering her passion of the moment before, she began to wonder what she had said.  In the meantime, shrugging his shoulders with a forced indifference, Hervey crossed the patio and she was aware that he was received in silence—­no murmurs of congratulation for the manner in which he had borne himself during the interview.

“I got to ask you to gimme about two minutes of listening, Miss Jordan.  Will you do it?”

“At least I won’t stop you.  Say what you please, Mr. Perris.”

She wished heartily that she could have spoken with a little show of relenting but she had committed herself to coldness.  In her soul of souls she wanted to bid him take a chair and tell her frankly all about it, assure him that after a moment of blind anger she had never doubted his straightforward desire to serve her.  He began to speak.

“It’s this way.  I come out here to shoot a hoss, and I’ve worked tolerable hard to get in rifle range.  I guess Hervey has been saying that I’ve got into shooting distance a dozen times but it ain’t true.  He happened to be sneaking about to-day, and he saw Alcatraz come close by me for the first time.”

He paused.  “I’ll give you my word on that.”

“You don’t need to” said the girl, impetuously.

His eyes flashed up at her, at that, and he stood suddenly straight as though she had given him the right to stop cringing and talk like a man.  What on earth, she wondered, could have forced the man to such humility?  It made her shrink as one might on seeing an eagle cower before a wren.  As for Perris, his resentment was in no wise abated by her friendliness.  She had given him some moments of torture and the memory of that abasement would haunt him many a day.  He mutely vowed that she should pay for it, and went on:  “I sure wanted to sing when I caught Alcatraz in the sights.  I pulled a bead on him just behind the shoulder but I could see the muscles along his shoulders working and it was a pretty sight, Miss Jordan.”

She nodded, frowning in the intentness with which she followed him.  She had thought of him as one with the careless, mischievous soul of a child but now, in quick, deep glances, she reached to profounder things.

“I held the bead,” he kept repeating, his glance going blankly past her as he struggled to find words for the strange experience, “but then I saw his ribs going in and out.  He was big where the cinches would run, you see, and I began to understand where he got that wind of his that never gives out.  Besides, I somehow got to thinking about his heart under the ribs, lady, and I figured it kind of low to stop all the life in him with a bullet.  So I swung my bead up along his neck—­he’s got a long neck and that means a long stride—­till I came plump on his head, and just then he swung his head and gave me a look.”

He breathed deeply, and then:  “It was like jumping into cold water all of a sudden.  I felt hollow inside.  And then all at once I knew they’d never been a hoss like him in the mountains.  I knew he was an outlaw.  I knew he was plumb bad.  But I knew he was a king, lady, and I couldn’t no more shoot him that I could lie behind a bush and shoot a man.”  He was suddenly on fire.

“Looked to me like he was my hoss.  Like he’d been planned for me.  I wanted him terrible bad, the way you want things when you’re a kid—­the way you want Christmas the day before, when it don’t seem like you could wait for tomorrow.”

“But—­he’s a man-killer, Mr. Perris.  I’ve seen it!”

His hand went out to her and she listened in utter amazement while he pleaded with all his heart in his voice.

“Lemme have a chance to make him my hoss, murders or not!  Lemme stay here on the ranch and work, because they’s no other good place for hunting him.  I know you want them mares, but some day I’ll get my rope on him and then I swear I’ll break him or he’ll break me.  I’ll break him, ride him to death, or he’ll pitch me off and finish me liked he finished Cordova.  But I know I can handle him.  I sure feel it inside of me, lady!  Pay?  I don’t want pay!  I’ll work for nothing.  If I had a stake, I’d give it to you for a chance to keep on trying for him.  I know I’m asking a pile.  You want the mares and you can get them the minute Alcatraz is dropped with a bullet,—­but I tell you straight, he’s worth all of ’em—­all six and more!”

A light came over his face.  “Miss Jordan, lemme stay on and try my luck and if I get him and break him, I’ll turn him over to you.  And I tell you:  he’s the wind on four feet.”

“You’ll do all this and then give him to me when he’s gentled and broken—­if that can be done?  Then why do you want him?”

“I want to show him that he’s got a master.  He’s played with me and plumb fooled me all these weeks.  I want to get on him and show him he’s beat.”  His fierce joy in the thought was contagious.  “I want to make him turn when I pull on the reins.  I’ll have him start when I want to start and stop when I want to stop.  I’ll make him glad when I talk soft to him and shake when I talk hard.  He’s made a fool of me; I’ll make a fool and a show of him.  Lady, will you say yes?”

He had swept her off her feet and with a mind full of a riot of imaginings—­the frantic stallion, the clinging rider, the struggle for superiority—­she breathed:  “Yes, yes!  A thousand times yes—­and good luck, Mr. Perris.”

He tossed his arms above his head and cried out joyously.

“Lady, it’s more’n ten years of life to me!”

“But wait!” she said, suddenly aware of Hervey, lingering in the background.  “I haven’t the power to let you stay.  It’s Mr. Hervey who has authority while my father is away.”

The lips of Red Jim twitched to a sneering malevolence mingled with gloom.

“It’s up to him?” he echoed.  “Then I might of spared myself all of this talk.”

It would all be over in a moment.  The foreman would utter the refusal.  Red Perris would be in his saddle and bound towards the mountains.  And that thought gave Marianne sudden insight into the fact that the Valley of the Eagles would be a drear, lonely place without Red Jim.

“You don’t know Mr. Hervey,” she broke in before the foreman could speak for himself.  “He’ll bear no malice to you.  He’s forgotten that squabble over—­”

“Sure I have,” said Lew Hervey.  “I’ve forgotten ten all about it.  But the way I figure, Miss Jordan, is that Perris is like a chunk of dynamite on the ranch.  Any day one of the boys may run into him and there’ll be a killing.  They’re red-hot against him.  They might start for him in a gang one of these days, for all I know.  For his own sake, Perris had better leave the Valley.”

He had advanced his argument cunningly enough and by the way Marianne’s eyes grew large and her color changed, he knew that he had made his point.

“Would they do that?” she gasped.  “Have we such men?”

“I dunno,” said Lew.  “He sure rode ’em hard that morning.”

“Then go,” cried Marianne, turning eagerly to Red Jim.  “For heaven’s sake, go at once!  Forget Alcatraz—­forget the mares—­but start at once, Mr. Perris!”

Even a blind man might have guessed many things from the tremor of her voice.  Lew Hervey saw enough to make his eyes contract to the brightness of a ferret’s as he glanced from the girl to handsome Jim Perris.  But the red-headed adventurer was quite blind, quite deaf.  No matter how the thing had been done, he knew that the girl and the foreman were now both combined to drive him from the ranch, from Alcatraz.  For a moment of blind anger he wanted to crush, kill, destroy.  Then he turned on his heel and strode towards the arch which led into the patio.

“Mind you!” called Lew Hervey in warning.  “It’s on your own head, Perris.  If you don’t leave, I’ll throw you off!”

Red Jim flashed about under the shade of the arch.

“Come get me, and be damned,” he said.

And then he was gone.  The cowpunchers, furious at this open defiance of them all, boiled out into the patio, growling.

“You see?” said Hervey to the girl.  “He won’t be satisfied till there’s a killing!”

“Keep them back!” she pleaded.  “Don’t let them go, Mr. Hervey.  Don’t let them follow him!”

One sharp, short order from Hervey stopped the foremost as they ran for the entrance.  In fact, not one of them was peculiarly keen to follow such a trail as this in the darkness.  Breathless silence fell over the patio, and then they heard the departing beat of the hoofs of Red’s horse.  And the shock of every footfall struck home in the heart of Marianne and filled her with a great loneliness and terror.  And then the noise of the gallop died away in the far-off night.