The Rancher's Revenge

Max Brand

Description

The story of young, hard-working rancher John Saxon who suffers abuse from the mean-spirited Bob Witherell. Saxon gains skill as a gunsman and takes down Witherell in a duel... but was it a good idea? Witherell was no ordinary bully, he was also the brother of the notorious outlaw, The Solitaire, of national repute with a list of dead men long and crowded with important names. 

Sujets

• Fiction
• Westerns

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 05 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774642917
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Rancher's Revenge

by Max Brand



First published in 1934

This edition published by Rare Treasures

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

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The Rancher’s Revenge



by Max Brand

CHAPTER I
Sometimes when a limb is slashed off ayoung tree, half the strong juice of its lifeseems to flow away through the wound, andinstead of growing, it shrinks, withers,hardens, and so endures for a long time,looking in the forest like one of thosestunted trees which grow against the arcticwinds of timberline. Daniel Finlay was likethat. He was not much past forty, but helooked sapless, dry, hard of rind, like a manof sixty. His right arm had been cut off atthe wrist, and with the loss of that handwent his possibilities of leading a happy life.He had to withdraw from physical action;there was left him only his mind and evenof that he made a left-handed use. He wasa trouble maker.
He had a law office in the town of Bluewater,but his real business was conductedin other places. In a courtroom the handlessgestures of his right arm often had terribleeffect on a jury and convinced it of the honestyof his passion; at those times his restrainedvoice and his quiet words gave asense of a life so tragic that deception wasnow too small and mean to enter it, andthat was why he was a better liar than mostmen and a more efficient trouble maker. Onthis bright Sunday he began the work whichwas his masterpiece both for the nature ofthe mischief that he led toward and for thenumber of lives that were involved.
He hated the peace of this day. Not longbefore, Bluewater had been just a shadenoisier and more dangerous on Sundaythan on week days, but since the ReverendJoseph Hunter built the white church onthe hill at the end of the street, law andorder had begun to organize in the town.The saloons closed on Sunday. Quiet fellover the street, and Finlay hated that quiet.During the week, when all men were busy,laboring, sweating, scheming, conspiringto make their way in the world, Finlay wasonly unhappy in the evening when other citizensreturned to their homes without fearof the long and lonely night; but on Sundaysof quiet, all the bitter hours of sunshinetold Finlay that he was alone in thisworld.
And on this Sunday, as he walked slowlydown the street, he detested everything,from the empty, dusty ruts to the bald facesof the frame shacks and stores, and so upto the shaggy sides of the mountains andtheir saw-toothed edges against the sky. Ashis eye could travel outward through thethin blue of space, so it could turn inwardwithout finding peace; and always he washearing the hurrying, confused, disputingvoices of Bluewater creek as it rushed onabout a business that was never completed.
Here and there he passed householderssitting in their shirtsleeves on front porches.If there was a woman present, he tookoff his hat, first making a gesture up withhis right arm and then seeming to realizethat the hand was lacking and hurriedlysnatching off his hat with the left. Thewomen never got tired of seeing that mixedgesture because women are never tired ofthings that make their hearts ache just a little.
Because we pity the sufferers and themaimed, we feel that their hearts must begood. The pride of Finlay was like that ofthe damned, but it was written down as decentdignity. Malice hardened his face andwrinkled his eyes, but his expression wasattributed to pain of body and mind. Heknew that secret charities are always publishedabroad in convinced whispers. Therewere people in Bluewater ready to swearthat Finlay was one of the best men in theworld.
On this morning, he was debating in hismind what he would do about the church.He so loathed the mild eye and the openface of the good minister that even to contemplatesitting with the congregation wasa torment to him, but when he saw thenumber of people who were turning out intheir best clothes to hurry up the hill, herealized that he would have to do somethingabout a social fact that had grown to suchimportance. Even big Hank Walters, withtwo dead men in his past, was striding upthe walk with his wife and three children,and looking perfectly happy and contented!
Daniel Finlay decided that he would goonce a year to the church. He would enterit for the Christmas service. He wouldcome in late and last. He would sit quietlyin one of the rear seats. Best of all if hefound the church filled and had to standin the back, listening, grave. After a time,people would know that he was there. Theywould turn covert heads. A whisper wouldrun about the church, even in the midst ofthe service. The startled eyes of the ministerwould find him and dwell on him.When the plate was passed, he would slipa hundred dollars into it, folding the billvery small. Afterward the size of the donationwould be noticed, and everybodywould know about it, and, when he passed,the women and the children would opentheir eyes at him.
He saw that by this act he would gainmore respect and wonder and admirationand sympathy than by praying on his kneesin public every Sunday of the year. And justas much as he despised and loathed and enviedall strong and happy people, so heyearned to have their sympathy.
On this day, when he came to the general-merchandisestore, he found it closedand felt that this was a personal affront. Buton the wide veranda, their chairs tilted backagainst the wall, were Bob Witherell andseveral of his men. They were tools fit formischief, and therefore they pleased hiseye. Only six months before he had defendedBob Witherell on the charge of robbingthe stagecoach to Warrenton. He hadsaid to Witherell: “You’re as guilty as anything,but I’ll take your case. You’re youngenough to know better.”
He always covered up his dishonorableaction with a wise or a noble maxim. WhenWitherell asked him, after acquittal hadbeen brought about by one of those handlessorations to a jury, what the fee was, hehad told Bob, sternly, that he had not donethis thing for money. He refused to namea price. And that was why Bob Witherell,with a sense of shame, stuffed five hundreddollars into an envelope and left it on hisdesk. He accepted the money with the carelessgesture of one who was above consideringsuch a thing.
Bob Witherell was vastly impressed. Hefelt that he had been delivered from dangerby a man who believed in him in spite ofthe fact that that same man was aware ofhis guilt. When Finlay came by, now, Bobjumped up from his chair and shook handseagerly, respectfully. He was so big and gay,his eyes were so black and restless, therewas so much red life gleaming through hischeeks that Finlay inwardly felt poisonedby the sight of a creature to whom, the merestexistence was sure to be a happiness.He loathed Bob Witherell because he knewthat Bob was graced by the advantage ofa vast physical content. He endured BobWitherell because Bob was an instrumentwhich might one day be used in giving painto others.
Witherell introduced the lawyer to theothers. They were unlike their big companionin many ways, but in all of their eyesappeared a certain bright restlessness.Finlay gave them his left hand, gravely,one by one; he knew that every one of themought to be in jail or perhaps be hangingat the end of a rope. But he allowed a certainkindliness to appear through his austerity.
“Look across the street, Mr. Finlay,” saidBob Witherell. “What’s the name of thatgal over there? Gosh, she’s a beauty.”
She was not a beauty, exactly. That is tosay, when youth was subtracted, she wouldremain merely pretty. She was dressed upin a fluffy white dress that the wind fluttered,and through the wide, translucentbrim of her hat the sun strained a goldenlight over her face. Goodness and gentlenessshone from her, and she kept smilingas girls will when they are very young andvery happy. Or youth alone and that mysteriousknowledge which only the youngpossess will make them smile, and thathearkening to all that is obscured in ourolder ears. The house was a plain littlewhite-painted shack like most of the othersin the street, but it was distinguished fromthe rest by having a patch of garden behindits picket fence. And the girl was movingin the narrow garden walks, touching theflowers, leaning over them, smiling andeven laughing at them.
“That’s Mary Wilson, and she’s not foryou,” said Finlay.
“Oh, isn’t she?” asked Witherell. “Who’sgot her staked out and a claim filed?”
“Young fellow over yonder in the mountains,”said Finlay. “He’s got a cabin overin a corner of the Bentley place.”
“A dog-gone squatter, eh?” asked Witherell,frowning, staring at the girl.
“Don’t call him that,” answered Finlay.“Young fellow, hard-working. Been onhis own since he was sixteen, and alwaysworking at that bit of land. Built a cabinand a barn. Raises some hay. Has a nicestart on a herd. No nonsense about him,Witherell. A young fellow to be respectedand envied. Very much so!”
Now, painting this picture of an honestman, and a good citizen, Finlay watchedwith a side glance the effect of his descriptionon Witherell, and his heart boundedas he saw his poison take effect.
“A man that wanted to, I bet he couldtake the gal from this hombre you talkabout,” said Witherell.
“Take her away?” said Finlay. “Not fromJohn Saxon! There’s a real man, Bob. Asstrong a fellow with his hands as any in themountains around here, I suppose. No, no,whatever you do, don’t have any troublewith John Saxon!”
He shook his head