The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand
to think about than your damfoolery.”
“Damfoolery?” echoed Geraldine. “Step up and look at the loot! Dust, boys, real dust!”
He untied the mouth of a small buckskin bag and shoved it under the nose of the man who had spoken to him. The latter jumped back with a yell and regarded Geraldine with fascinated eyes.
“By God, boys,” he said, “it is dust!”
Geraldine fought off the crowd with both hands.
“All mine!” he cried. “Mine, boys! You voted the loot to the man who caught the Ghost!”
“And where’s the Ghost?” asked several men together.
“Geraldine,” said Collins, pushing through the crowd, “if this is another joke we’ll hang you for it!”
“It’s too heavy for a joke,” grinned Geraldine. “I’ll put the loot in your hands, Collins, and when I show you the Ghost I’ll ask for it again.”
Collins caught his shoulder in a strong grasp.
“Honest to God?” he asked. “Have you got him?”
“I have,” said Geraldine, “and I’ll give him to you on one ground.”
“Out with it,” said Collins.
“Well,” said Geraldine, “when you see him you’ll recognize him. He’s been one of us!”
“I knew it,” growled Collins; “some dirty dog that lived with us and knifed us in the back all the time.”
“But, remember,” said Geraldine, “he never shot to kill, and that’s why you sha’n’t string him up. Is it a bargain?”
“It’s a bargain,” said Collins, “we’ll turn him over to the sheriff. Are you with me, boys?”
They yelled their agreement, and in thirty seconds every man who had a horse was galloping after Collins and Geraldine. At the shrub beside the wall of the valley Geraldine drew rein, and they followed him in an awed and breathless body into the passage.
“I went out scouting on my own hook,” explained Geraldine, as he went before them, “and I saw the Ghost ride down the cañon and disappear in here. I followed him.”
“Followed up this passage all alone?” queried Collins.
“I did,” said Geraldine.
“And what did you do to him?”
“You’ll see in a minute. There was only one shot fired, and it came from his gun.”
They turned the sharp angle and entered the lighted end of the passage. In another moment they crowded into the cave and stood staring at the tightly bound figure of Silver Pete. His eyes burned furiously into the face of Geraldine. The men swarmed about his prostrate body.
“Untie his feet, boys,” said Collins, “and we’ll take him back. Silver Pete, you can thank your lucky stars that Geraldine made us promise to turn you over to the law.”
“How did you do it?” he continued, turning to Geraldine.
“I’m not very handy with a gun,” said the Ghost, “so I tackled him with my fists. Look at that cut on his jaw. That’s where I hit him!”
A little murmur of wonder passed around the group. One of them cut the rope which bound Pete’s ankles together, and two more dragged him to his feet.
“Stand up like a man, Pete,” said Collins, “and thank Geraldine for not cutting out your rotten heart!”
But Silver Pete, never moving his eyes from the face of the Ghost, broke into a long and full-throated laugh.
“Watch him, boys!” called Collins sharply. “He’s going looney! Here, Jim, grab on that side and I’ll take him here. Now start down the tunnel.”
Yet, as they went forward, the rumbling laugh of the gun-fighter broke out again and again.
“I got to leave you here,” said the Ghost, when they came out from the mouth of the passage. “My way runs east, and I got a date at Tuxee for to-night. I’ll just trouble you for that there slicker with the dust in it, Collins.”
Without a word the vigilance men unstrapped the heavy packet which he had tied behind his saddle. He fastened it behind Geraldine’s saddle and then caught him by the hand.
“Geraldine,” he said, “you’re a queer cuss! We haven’t made you out yet, but we’re going to take a long look at you when you come back to Murrayville to-morrow.”
“When I come back,” said Geraldine, “you can look at me as long as you wish.”
His eyes changed, and he laid a hand on Collins’s shoulder.
“Take it from me,” he said softly, “you’ve given me your word that the boys won’t do Pete dirt. Remember, he never plugged any of you. He’s got his hands tied now, Collins, and if any of the boys try fancy stunts with him—maybe I’ll be making a quick trip back from Tuxee. Savvy?”
His eyes held Collins for the briefest moment, and then he swung into his saddle and rode east with the farewell yells of the posse ringing after him. By the time they were in their saddles Geraldine had topped a hill several hundred yards away and his figure was black against the moon. A wind from the east blew back his song to them faintly:
“I don’t expect no bloomin’ tears;
The only thing I ask
Is something for a monument
In the way of a whisky flask.”
“Look at him, boys,” said Collins, turning in his saddle. “If it wasn’t for what’s happened to-night, I’d lay ten to one that that was the Ghost on the wing for his hiding-place!”
HOLE-IN-THE-WALL BARRETT (1919)
If this story were not fact, it would not be written. It is too incredible for fiction. The best proof of its reality is the very fact that it is incredible, but if further proof is wanted it may be obtained from the twelve good men and true who formed the jury at the trial of Harry McCurtney. If they will not do, certainly Judge Lorry is an unimpeachable witness.
The story has to do with probably the oldest combination known to stories—a hero, a villain, and a beautiful woman. The hero was young, handsome, talented; the villain was middle-aged and rather stout, and smoked big black cigars; the beautiful woman was very beautiful.
Whatever the reader may think, this is not a motion-picture scenario. However, it sounds so much like one that it might as well start in the movie way.
The camera, therefore, opens on a close-up of the middle-aged villain. As the round spot of light widens, everyone can see that the man is a villain. The way he chews that long black cigar, for instance, emitting slow; luxurious puffs, is sufficient proof.
No one but a villain really enjoys good tobacco; but to pile Pelion on Ossa, there are other proofs—lots of them. He has a square, bulging jaw, a straight-lipped, cruel mouth, a great hawk nose, and keen eyes buried under the overhanging shelter of shaggy brows. He is frowning in his villainous way and looking down.
The spot of light widens still further and includes the beautiful woman. She is very, very beautiful; a black-haired type with questioning, dark eyes. She is dressed in black, too, filmy over the arms, so that the rose tint of flesh shines through. She reclines in an easy chair with her head pillowed gracefully and canted somewhat to one side, while she studies the villain and defies him.
One notices her slender-fingered hand drooping from the arm of the chair, and compares it with the big fist of the villain, wondering how she can have the courage to defy him. She seems to know all about him. Well, she ought to. She is his wife.
The camera now opens out to the full and one sees the room. It is very big. There is a soft glimmer