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The Floating Press - Max Brand

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177 pages

English

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If you like your westerns with a stiff dose of righteous vengeance and well-deserved comeuppance, you'll love The Rangeland Avenger by prolific author and beloved master of the genre Max Brand. A softspoken but ruthless protagonist cuts a swath of violent payback across the Wild West in this thrill-a-minute adventure.

Sujets

Westerns

Western (genre)

Western

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 janvier 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775455172
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE RANGELAND AVENGER
* * *
MAX BRAND

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The Rangeland Avenger First published in 1922 ISBN 978-1-77545-517-2 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35
Chapter 1
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Of the four men, Hal Sinclair was the vital spirit. In the actual laborof mining, the mighty arms and tireless back Of Quade had been atreasure. For knowledge of camping, hunting, cooking, and all the loreof the trail, Lowrie stood as a valuable resource; and Sandersen wasthe dreamy, resolute spirit, who had hoped for gold in those mountainsuntil he came to believe his hope. He had gathered these threestalwarts to help him to his purpose, and if he lived he would lead yetothers to failure.
Hope never died in this tall, gaunt man, with a pale-blue eye the colorof the horizon dusted with the first morning mist. He was the veryspirit of lost causes, full of apprehensions, foreboding,superstitions. A hunch might make him journey five hundred miles; asnort of his horse could make him give up the trail and turn back.
But Hal Sinclair was the antidote for Sandersen. He was still a boy atthirty—big, handsome, thoughtless, with a heart as clean as new snow.His throat was so parched by that day's ride that he dared not open hislips to sing, as he usually did. He compromised by humming songs newand old, and when his companions cursed his noise, he contented himselfwith talking softly to his horse, amply rewarded when the ponyoccasionally lifted a tired ear to the familiar voice.
Failure and fear were the blight on the spirit of the rest. They hadfound no gold worth looking at twice, and, lingering too long in thesearch, they had rashly turned back on a shortcut across the desert.Two days before, the blow had fallen. They found Sawyer's water holenearly dry, just a little pool in the center, with caked, dead mud allaround it. They drained that water dry and struck on. Since then thewater famine had gained a hold on them; another water hole had not adrop in it. Now they could only aim at the cool, blue mockery of themountains before them, praying that the ponies would last to thefoothills.
Still Hal Sinclair could sing softly to his horse and to himself; and,though his companions cursed his singing, they blessed him for it intheir hearts. Otherwise the white, listening silence of the desertwould have crushed them; otherwise the lure of the mountains would havemaddened them and made them push on until the horses would have diedwithin five miles of the labor; otherwise the pain in their slowlyswelling throats would have taken their reason. For thirst in thedesert carries the pangs of several deaths—death from fire,suffocation, and insanity.
No wonder the three scowled at Hal Sinclair when he drew his revolver.
"My horse is gun-shy," he said, "but I'll bet the rest of you I candrill a horn off that skull before you do."
Of course it was a foolish challenge. Lowrie was the gun expert of theparty. Indeed he had reached that dangerous point of efficiency withfirearms where a man is apt to reach for his gun to decide an argument.Now Lowrie followed the direction of Sinclair's gesture. It was theskull of a steer, with enormous branching horns. The rest of theskeleton was sinking into the sands.
"Don't talk fool talk," said Lowrie. "Save your wind and yourammunition. You may need 'em for yourself, son!"
That grim suggestion made Sandersen and Quade shudder. But a grinspread on the broad, ugly face of Lowrie, and Sinclair merely shruggedhis shoulders.
"I'll try you for a dollar."
"Nope."
"Five dollars?"
"Nope."
"You're afraid to try, Lowrie!"
It was a smiling challenge, but Lowrie flushed. He had a childish pridein his skill with weapons.
"All right, kid. Get ready!"
He brought a Colt smoothly into his hand and balanced it dexterously,swinging it back and forth between his eyes and the target to makeready for a snap shot.
"Ready!" cried Hal Sinclair excitedly.
Lowrie's gun spoke first, and it was the only one that was fired, forSinclair's horse was gun-shy indeed. At the explosion he pitchedstraight into the air with a squeal of mustang fright and came downbucking. The others forgot to look for the results of Lowrie's shot.They reined their horses away from the pitching broncho disgustedly.Sinclair was a fool to use up the last of his mustang's strength inthis manner. But Hal Sinclair had forgotten the journey ahead. He wasrioting in the new excitement cheering the broncho to new exertions.And it was in the midst of that flurry of action that the great blowfell. The horse stuck his right forefoot into a hole.
To the eyes of the others it seemed to happen slowly. The mustang washalted in the midst of a leap, tugged at a leg that seemed glued to theground, and then buckled suddenly and collapsed on one side. They heardthat awful, muffled sound of splintering bone and then the scream ofthe tortured horse.
But they gave no heed to that. Hal Sinclair in the fall had been pinnedbeneath his mount. The huge strength of Quade sufficed to budge thewrithing mustang. Lowrie and Sandersen drew Sinclair's pinioned rightleg clear and stretched him on the sand.
It was Lowrie who shot the horse.
"You've done a brown turn," said Sandersen fiercely to the prostratefigure of Sinclair. "Four men and three hosses. A fine partner you are,Sinclair!"
"Shut up," said Hal. "Do something for that foot of mine."
Lowrie cut the boot away dexterously and turned out the foot. It waspainfully twisted to one side and lay limp on the sand.
"Do something!" said Sinclair, groaning.
The three looked at him, at the dead horse, at the white-hot desert, atthe distant, blue mountains.
"What the devil can we do? You've spoiled all our chances, Sinclair."
"Ride on then and forget me! But tie up that foot before you go. Ican't stand it!"
Silently, with ugly looks, they obeyed. Secretly every one of the threewas saying to himself that this folly of Sinclair's had ruined alltheir chances of getting free from the sands alive. They looked acrossat the skull of the steer. It was still there, very close. It seemed tohave grown larger, with a horrible significance. And each instinctivelyput a man's skull beside it, bleached and white, with shadow eyes.Quade did the actual bandaging of Sinclair's foot, drawing tight abovethe ankle, so that some of the circulation was shut off; but it easedthe pain, and now Sinclair sat up.
"I'm sorry," he said, "mighty sorry, boys!"
There was no answer. He saw by their lowered eyes that they were hatinghim. He felt it in the savage grip of their hands, as they lifted himand put him into Quade's saddle. Quade was the largest, and it wasmutely accepted that he should be the first to walk, while Sinclairrode. It was accepted by all except Quade, that is to say. That big manstrode beside his horse, lifting his eyes now and then to glareremorselessly at Sinclair.
It was bitter work walking through that sand. The heel crunched intoit, throwing a strain heavily on the back of the thigh, and then theball of the foot slipped back in the midst of a stride. Also the laborraised the temperature of the body incredibly. With no wind stirring itwas suffocating.
And the day was barely beginning!
Barely two hours before the sun had been merely a red ball on the edgeof the desert. Now it was low in the sky, but bitterly hot. And theirmournful glances presaged the horror that was coming in the middle ofthe day.
Deadly silence fell on that group. They took their turns by the watch,half an hour at a time, walking and then changing horses, and, as eachman took his turn on foot, he cast one long glance of hatred atSinclair.
He was beginning to know them for the first time. They were chanceacquaintances. The whole trip had been undertaken by him on the spur ofthe moment; and, as far as lay in his cheery, thoughtless nature, hehad come to regret it. The work of the trail had taught him that he wasmismated in this company, and the first stern test was stripping themasks from them. He saw three ugly natures, three small, cruel souls.
It came Sandersen's turn to walk.
"Maybe I could take a turn walking," suggested Sinclair.
It was the first time in his life that he had had to shift any burdenonto the shoulders of another except his brother, and that wasdifferent. Ah, how different! He sent up one brief prayer for RileySinclair. There was a man who would have walked all day that hisbrother might ride, and at the end of the day that man of iron would beas fresh as those who had ridden. Moreover, there would have been noquestions, no spite, but a free giving. Mutely he swore that he wouldhereafter judge all men by the stern and honorable spirit of Riley.
And then that sad offer: "Maybe I could take a turn walking, Sandersen.I could hold on to a stirrup and hop along some way!"
Lowrie and Quade sneered, and Sandersen retorted fiercely: "Shut up!You know it ain't possible, but I ought to call your bluff."
He had no answer, for it was not possible. The twisted foot was asteady torture.
In another half hour he asked for water, as they paused for