The Land of Strong Men Part 82

"You suppose!" he said. "My father was not armed. Do you think I will let you go, gun or no gun. One of us stays on this summit, Gavin French!"

"In your place I would say just that," Gavin admitted. "But I am going to tell you how it happened; and then I am going to let you take up your gun and do what you like. And just remember that if I wanted to lie I would have done it in the first place."

He paused a moment frowning at Angus.

"The day your father was shot," he began, "I was on the range looking for horses, and I had my rifle. In the afternoon I was riding up the long coulee by Cat Creek when I heard a shot ahead, and in a few minutes I came upon a steer staggering along. Then he rolled over and lay kicking. I got off my horse and saw your brand on him, and that he had been shot. Just then your father came tearing up the coulee. He saw me beside the dead steer, my rifle in my hand, and naturally he thought I had done the killing. He had no earthly use for me, and besides that he and I had some trouble a week before over a two-year-old. So when he rode up I knew there was going to be more trouble, and I was dead right.

"He didn't give me much chance to explain, and he didn't get off his horse. He d.a.m.ned me for a liar and a rustler, and suddenly he reached down and grabbed the barrel of my rifle with both hands. I've often wished I had let him take it, but by that time he was so d.a.m.ned mad that I wasn't going to let him have a gun, and I was pretty hot myself. So I hung onto it and tried to twist it out of his hands. Then his horse started to back. I was dragged along, holding to the gun, and my hold slipped. I swear I don't know how it happened, unless my slipping hand lifted the hammer, but anyway the rifle went off.

"He let go then, and his horse bolted. I didn't know he was badly hurt, because he was riding all right. In fact I wasn't sure he was. .h.i.t at all. That was the last I saw of him. My own horse was frightened by the shot and it took me some time to catch him. I rode two or three miles looking for your father, but I was afraid that would lead to more trouble, because I thought the first thing he would do would be to organize himself with a gun. So I went home and kept my mouth shut. The next day I heard he was dead. That's all. And there's your gun. If you feel like playing even, go to it."

But Angus as he listened knew that Gavin French was telling the exact truth. He could visualize the tragedy of that bygone day of his boyhood.

His father's actions, as related by Gavin, were in exact keeping with his character. But in the end, though convinced that Gavin had fired with intent to kill, he had died in grim silence rather than leave to his son a heritage of hate and revenge.

"I believe it happened as you say it did," he said. "There is nothing to play even for."

The big man sighed deeply. "It's not every man who would believe it," he said; "but it's true. I know I should have come forward and told how it was, then, but I had only my own word. If your father had told anybody about the two-year-old and the words we had had, it would have been bad.

So I just kept quiet."

"How did Braden know?"

"From Tenas Pete. I believe that Siwash shot the steer himself and saw what happened. Braden told me the Indian had told him the whole thing.

That was a year after, and Pete had broken his neck with a bad cayuse.

Braden tried to hold it over me till I put the fear of G.o.d in his heart one night when we were alone. I wouldn't do his dirty work, and I didn't know till too late what Blake and Jerry had done. I mean about your ditch. Larry wasn't in that. I couldn't give my brothers away, could I?

Oh, it's a rotten mess from start to finis.h.!.+"

He stared gloomily across the moonlit s.p.a.ces, frowning heavily.

"So there's the whole thing," he said. "I've felt like telling you before, but what was the use? From first to last my family has done you dirt. Well, I'm the only man left, and I'll pay for the crowd. I'll be the goat. Short of surrendering, which I won't do, I'll give you any satisfaction you like. If you want it with a gun, all right. But we're two big, skook.u.m men. I don't know which of us is the better, though I think I am. If you can best me to-night, in a fair fight without weapons, I'll go back with you; and if I best you you go back alone.

What do you say?"

Angus knew that Gavin meant it. The proposal was primitive in conception and simplicity. Perhaps because of that it appealed to him strongly.

"There are not many men who would make that offer," he said.

"I would not make it to any other man," Gavin replied. "Does it go?"

"No."

The big man threw out his hands in a gesture of impatience.

"Then what the devil does?" he demanded. "Why not? You're no more afraid of me than I am of you. What do you want?"

"Nothing," Angus said. "Now that I know how my father died, I have nothing against you. Braden I care nothing about. So I am going back the way I came. But I am glad you do not think me a coward."

Gavin French drew a deep breath and his cold blue eyes for a moment held a curiously soft expression.

"Mackay," he said, "it probably sounds queer, but I have always liked you. And I liked you better after that little fuss we had on Christmas night, for then I knew you were strong as I am strong, and I hoped some day, for the pure fun of it, we might see which of us was the better man. A coward? Lord, no! I know why you are doing this. I'll bet you saw Kathleen."

"Yes," Angus admitted, "I saw her. She told me. But that's not--"

"You needn't lie about it," Gavin said gruffly. "That sort of thing is about all you would lie about. She's a good girl. I--I'm fond of her."

He hesitated over the admission. "We were a queer bunch--our family.

Stand-off. No slush. Afraid to show that we were fond of each other.

That was the way with Kit and me. If I can make this, it will be different in the future. I'm not pulling any repentance stuff, you savvy. What's done is done, and it can't be helped. Well, it's time I was moving."

"How are you fixed for matches and smoking?"

"None too well--if you can spare either."

Angus handed over what he had in his pockets. "I wish you luck," he said. "I hope you make it--clean."

"I'll make it," Gavin replied calmly, "if it's my luck, and if it isn't I won't. It won't make any difference to anybody but Kit. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't care--either way."

"Don't worry about her. We will see that she wants for nothing. Her home will be with us if she will make it there, till you are ready for her."

"That's white of you," Gavin said with something very like emotion in his voice; "but she'd better do as we had arranged. Tell her I'll make it sure. And tell Faith--if you don't mind--that I said her husband was a good man--oh, a d.a.m.ned good man!--every way." He was silent for a moment. "Shake?" he said and held out his hand.

Their grips met hard.

"Well, so long," said Gavin.

"So long," said Angus.

The big man nodded and turned north. Angus turned south. In a hundred paces he looked back. Gavin, already indistinct in the deceptive moonlight was standing at the top of a slight rise doing likewise. He waved his hand, turned, and the rise hid him from view. Though Angus watched for some moments he did not reappear. He had crossed the divide.

Then Angus, too, turned again, and realizing for the first time that the night cold of the height had chilled him to the bone struck a brisk pace down the southern slope; while behind him a rising wind broomed the dry snow of the desolate summit, effacing all trace of the trespa.s.sing feet of men.

CHAPTER XLVII

PEACE

Angus was riding up to the French ranch. He had just parted from his companions. Their homeward progress had been slow because of the wounded men. Turkey and Rennie had gone on toward the home ranch, and Bush and the other toward town. But he had turned off the trail to see Kathleen.

He hated his errand, but it was better that he should tell her than leave it to a stranger. He would be glad to get it over and go home--to Faith.

As he approached the house he saw her. Apparently she had seen him coming, for she came down to greet him. He dismounted stiffly. He felt her eyes searching his face.

"Well?" she queried. He shook his head.

"I am sorry, Kathleen. It is bad news."

"I expected it," she said quietly. "Tell me about it--all!"

He told her the main facts, omitting details. When he had concluded she sat motionless, her eyes on the glory of the evening sky above the western ranges.