Max Brand

Silvertip's Trap

Warsaw 2017

Contents

I. THE RESCUE

II. A KING OF CRIME

III. A JOB FOR NAYLOR

IV. THE OLD MILL

V. CROW’S NEST

VI. GATHERING NEWS

VII. THE SHERIFF’S TEMPTATION

VIII. GREGOR’S ESCAPE

IX. THE PURSUIT

X. ON THE ISLAND

XI. JIM SILVER

XII. THE POSSE

XIII. SURPRISED

XIV. A BIG DEAL

XV. THE TOWNSEND RANCH

XVI. OUTLAW CREW

XVII. NAYLOR’S PLAN

XVIII. SALLY’S DECISION

XIX. IN THE MORNING

XX. A STROKE OF BAD LUCK

XXI. SUSPECT

XXII. THE TRAIN ROBBERY

XXIII. RIDERS FROM TOWN

XXIV. CHRISTIAN’S SCHEME

XXV. THE TRAP

XXVI. THE WAY TO GO

I. THE RESCUE

BILL NAYLOR wanted to make up his mind between two jobs, both of which were open to him. There were always jobs open to Naylor because he had unusual talents. He could use a running iron with wonderful effect. There was hardly a rustler on the entire range more skillful in twisting a bit of heavy wire into shapes required for the altering of staple brands into new ones. He had dealt crooked faro in many places, and he was more than a fair hand at stacking a pack in a poker game. However, there are ups and downs in the gambling profession. The last little brawl had laid him up in hospital for two months. He was still weak in the body, and a little shaky in the nerves. And as for working as a rustler, he felt that a man who has been once cornered by a posse of indignant cattle owners and then turned loose has had warning enough.

So Bill Naylor had come into the country to his home town of Kendal to rest for a few weeks and make up his mind about the next step. Being of a surly and a lonely temper, he went out to watch the moonrise on the Kendal River, not because he appreciated the beauty of the scene, but because it was a good place to find solitude. There he sat on a rock beside the roar of Kendal Falls, smoked and meditated.

If he started to smuggle opium, the wages were high, and there was a fat commission on deliveries. Also, he knew all about how to roast a “pill,” and he felt that nothing is much better than a smoke of opium at night if there can be a stiff shot of whisky as an eye-opener in the morning. On the other hand, there was a good deal to be said for work as a moonshiner.

The profits were by no means as high, but the law punished the crime with a prison term proportionately shorter. To one who, like Bill Naylor, had spent half his life in prison already, the last item was a tidy score in the accounting. Besides, he liked the life of a moonshiner, the free days, the brisk companionship. And it is astonishing how much life will flow into the vicinity of a little still back in the mountains.

It was hard–it was very hard for him to make the choice. Some of the days south of the river were very memorable and delightful. Life in Mexico, flavored with tequila, was not to be sneered at. And the black, tarry liquid itself, with the little taint of red in it, like a stain of mortal red, had a special beauty in his mind. He felt also, that it was a more dignified calling, that of a smuggler. It was worthy of a man’s efforts. If he went up for smuggling opium, it was a thing to get space in the newspapers. It was a thing that would make his old associates, wherever they were, exclaim to one another: “Nerve, that’s what Bill Naylor has! They can’t keep that man down!”

Thrusting out his square jaw, and scowling till a shadow from his brows covered half of his face, Bill Naylor considered the situation and decided that that was a good simile. He was like a furtive, hunted beast that has been driven into the water, and every time he came up for air the law took a kick at his head.

He looked up, still scowling. Opium was beginning to win out, in his mind. And now he saw four riders come out slowly along the flat arch of the wooden bridge that spanned the river not far above the falls. They looked black and huge, for the moon was behind them. The moon threw on the polished face of the river the skeleton shadow of the bridge and even dimly marked out the images of the four riders.

Those four fellows all had their jobs, of course. They were riding in from some distant ranch to celebrate the end of the month by spending all their wages on bad bar whisky. The ordinary run of block-head was what they were, no doubt.

He made another cigarette, and was about to light it when there was a sudden commotion, a jumbling together of the silhouettes that had been advancing across the bridge, and thereafter the figure of a man flipped over the side of the bridge, dropped down, and smote the water. It leaped in a dim flash at the place where the body disappeared from view.

Bill Naylor stood up and stared.

“That ain’t so bad,” he said aloud.

He had a feeling that in this world one only needs to keep the eyes open in order to see a great many unexpected things.

The men on the bridge remained for a moment, then they proceeded at a casual gait. Of course, it would be folly for them to try to effect a rescue. That fellow had either been killed in striking the water, or else he would be whirled over the roar and ruin of the big falls. He might, to be sure, strike on one of the rocks that projected like so many shark’s teeth at the verge of the falls, but it was hardly better to be impaled at the brink of the falls than to be carried down with the waters.

Now, peering carefully, Naylor saw a shadow come swirling with the currents. It verged toward the brink of the falls. He could distinctly see the gleam of the face and the sweeping shadow of hair worn almost long enough to be the hair of a woman.

One of these backwoods fellows wearing his hair after a frontier fashion that was out of date. Well, he would soon not care whether his hair was long or short!

The body seemed to dally, as though a rope were pulling it back from death. Then the final surge of the current caught hold of it like a spear and hurled it at the brink of the falls.

“Gone for sure!” said Bill Naylor, grinning a little.

But then he distinctly saw the body strike on one of the rocks. It doubled over on the keen tooth. Head and legs streamed out with the downward current. Well, the river would soon work that obstacle clear and carry it down to be pounded to a pulp among the rocks of the lower canyon.

It was a miracle to Bill Naylor, when, as he lighted and smoked another cigarette, he saw the wounded man stir, raise a hand to the top of the rock, and strive to pull himself up the face of it. He had not sufficient strength.

Bill Naylor, without the least excitement, considered the possibilities of effecting a rescue. He cared not a whit whether the man went over the falls or not, but it was also true that a man saved from the brink of death generally feels gratitude, and often this gratitude can be expressed in terms of hard cash. Bill Naylor looked on the stranger as he might have looked on a big fish in a stream. He decided instantly that to attempt to clamber out over the rocks to the point where the man was clinging would be far too hazardous. So he sat down on his heels and went on smoking.

A good-sized log came spinning down the current, twisting aslant just above the cataract. Now it struck the rocks with a crash that splintered it in several places. The shock of it tossed up a shower of spray on Bill Naylor.

“I sit here and worry about savin’ lives like a fool,” he said. “I hope he goes–fast!”

He stood up in disgust. The cold of the water bit at his body, which was warm and tender under the shelter of his clothes.

Then he was amazed to see that this man, who already should have been dead, was now at the end of the log, and handing himself along the length of it as far as it went.

This brought him fairly close.

Bill Naylor walked out over the safe rocks near the shore and leaned over. There was a gap of perhaps five feet between the end of the log to which the man clung and the side of the rock where Naylor squatted. That was not much of a span, but the fellow could never make it. Through the narrow chasm the water plunged in a solid crystal, streaked deep down with films of foaming speed. If the stranger tried to cross that chasm, he would be squirted into eternity like a watermelon seed pressed between thumb and forefinger.

The comparison pleased Bill Naylor.

Well, the man would never bridge that narrow gap unaided. Should he make the effort?–Naylor asked himself. There was more than a little peril involved. If he secured a good grip on a projecting pinnacle on his side and extended his hand, it was possible that the rushing force of the water would break his hold.

He put his hand down into the stream. The force of it made his arm tremble, and he stood up again and shook his head.

There was no chance to speak above the thundering of the water. And the stranger, floating there on the verge of death, made no effort to appeal, even with gestures. Naylor, studying the face, saw that it was very handsome, with a capacious, high forehead, a bony, powerful chin, and plenty of refinement in the modeling of all the features.

That was most undoubtedly a fellow of force. He looked like some famous man whose picture had been before the attentive eye of Bill Naylor. But Bill disliked the height of the forehead. His own brow was low and cramped and indented. He felt like snarling when he saw features so godlike.

The man was young, too. He was young, handsome, probably brainy, with the most brilliant future ahead of him. Perhaps he was even a rich man.

“Well,” said Naylor to himself, “you can go down for all of me.”

He saw the head of the stranger bow a little. He had been trying to pull himself out of the water and get on top of the log: the effort was too great for him. He was smashed up. Perhaps the rock had torn him like the bite of a sea monster. And now his head dropped a little–not in despair, but in sheer weakness.

“A dead game one,” said Naylor to himself. “Sure a dead game one.”

He admired gameness. It was practically the only virtue that he himself possessed, but he felt that he never could have found himself in the situation of the stranger without making some frantic efforts to persuade the other fellow to a rescue. The stranger had not lifted a hand.

Somehow Bill Naylor found himself lowering his body over the side of the rock. He had a good grip with his left hand on a projecting fragment of the stone–suppose that fragment should break off?–and now he extended his right hand to the other.

A cold, hard grip locked instantly on his wrist, and a shock of terror spurted through the heart and the veins of Naylor. For he realized that he would never be able to break that grip; it was the bulldog clutch of a strong and desperate man, clinging to his last hope of life.

Now for the great effort! He set his teeth and pulled with all his might. The hand of the stranger burned his flesh, ground it against the bones of his wrist.

Bill Naylor felt his clutch on the rock slipping. If the cursed water only pulled with a steady force it would be all right–he could win. But there were tremors and jerks; the devil was tugging him toward the mouth of hell.

Then in an instant the strain ceased. He found the stranger floating beside him near the rock.

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