Max Brand

The King Bird Rides

Warsaw 2019

Contents

I. THE HUNT

II. LAWMAN AND OUTLAW

III. THE MARSHAL'S INFORMATION

IV. THE ANNOYING GIRL

V. TALK ABOUT BRICK

VI. THE MESSENGER

VII. THE PARENTS OF INEZ

VIII. THE KING BIRD'S TOAST

IX. INEZ'S EXPLANATION

X. BAD NEWS

XI. THE WONDER HORSE

XII. DEFEAT

XIII. THE RAVINE

XIV. THREE GUNMEN

XV. UNDERGROUND

XVI. BLOCKED IN

XVII. IN THE DARKNESS

XVIII. STALKING

XIX. THE GUARDED HOUSE

XX. TRAPPED

XXI. THE CELLAR

XXII. THE DEPUTY

XXIII. OUTWITTED LAWMAN

XXIV. AT THE FORD

XXV. JAMES KINNEY

XXVI. THE KIDNAPPER

XXVII. THE SAME TRAIL

XVIII. THE WOODED HILL

XXIX. THE CAMP

XXX. BOBBY KINNEY

XXXI. THE KING BIRD'S PLAN

XXXII. THE RACE TO TOWN

XXXIII. INEZ'S OFFER

XXXIV. DISCOVERED

XXXV. THE BLOOD TIE

XXXVI. MACEY'S VENGEANCE

XXXVII. GOOD ADVICE

XXXVIII. THE SILENT MAN

XXXIX. A DESERT CRIME

XL. PURSUIT'S END

XLI. BACK TO ELMIRA

I. THE HUNT

IT was not a great eminence that they stood on, but the air was so dry and clear that the eye could wander from the height, like a lord of space. Marshal Jim Hampton removed the field glasses from his eyes and handed them to his companion. The latter swung them up and caught in the field, first, a range of mountains, brown in the lower foothills, and sloping back rapidly to summits blue with distance and pale with ice. Then, to the side, he found straggling groups of mesas, their western sides gilded by the sun, which had almost set. Long shadows were painted black on their eastern sides, and black covered the canyons.

Then, in an open gorge, he found what he wanted, a rolling cloud of dust that pursued a smaller cloud that moved in advance of the first, like two of those little misty whirlpools that will go running down a hot street on a windless day.

He changed the focus of the glasses a little, and could make out the dark, faint forms of riders behind, and a single horseman in front. Even as he looked, down the side of the canyon streaked a quintet of fresh riders.

At least, by the dust they raised, they seemed to be traveling fast, but though they aimed at the leading horseman, they did not quite cut him off.

“They’ve got him!” he shouted.

“I don’t believe it,” said Marshal Jim. “Look again.”

“Almost,” said “Tug” Ramsay. “They’ll have him soon. They’ve got horses that are pretty fresh.”

“That all depends,” said the marshal. “The black mare usually has a coupla more links that she can let out, in a pinch.”

Tug Ramsay steadied the glasses at his eyes, and gasped.

“There’s still the same distance between ’em–still the same–still the same–”

He groaned with eagerness. Then, lowering the glasses with a jerk, he exclaimed:

“They got to get him, this time!”

The lean and ugly face of the marshal puckered with a grin.

“Want ’em to catch him pretty bad, don’t you, Tug?”

“Why, sure I do,” said Tug Ramsay. “Don’t you?”

“I dunno,” said the marshal. “It’s the third time in two years that I’ve got together every man that I could muster and gone after him. He’s beaten me so many times that I dunno how it would feel to have him out of the field. The world’d seem sort of empty.”

Tug Ramsay, in amazement, stared at his companion, and looked blankly away from him toward the ruins of the old Spanish fort that were scattered about them on top of the mesa.

“Yeah, I guess you’d appreciate that much more space, marshal,” said he. “He’s a devil, is what he is. I’d like to sink a chunk of lead in him.”

“He ain’t a devil,” said the marshal. “You dunno him very well, do you? You ain’t been long enough out of the north to know him very well.”

“I’ve heard the boys talk around the fire, by night,” said Ramsay.

The marshal took the glasses and focused them on the distant dust clouds. There were three of them now. A distance was growing between the two to the rear; just a little ahead the leader remained, an almost indistinguishable spot, because the sun was down, and all the air began to fill with golden dust.

“He’s not a devil,” repeated the marshal.

“The King Bird ain’t?” said Tug, his jaw falling as he gaped. He had a powerful face, not an intelligent one, though there was plenty of cunning packed away in his sloping forehead. “Why,” he continued, “the boys’ve told me yarns every evening, this week while we been chasing him, and there he is out there still–still runnin’. Nobody but the devil himself could’ve kept away that long.”

“Know what he looks like?” asked the marshal abruptly.

“Nope. I dunno that I do,” said Tug. “Big devil, I reckon.”

“Not more than five-ten. Not heavy, either,” said the marshal. “Not a bit heavy.”

“Where does he put his stuff then?” asked Tug Ramsay.

“Brain power, and nerve power,” said the marshal. “That’s the only explanation I know. It ain’t size that counts. You could kill a grizzly with a little pinhead of a.22, if you hit the right spot.”

“Yeah, I know all about that,” said Tug Ramsay. But he shook his head in doubt.

“Ever read fairy tales, Tug?” asked the marshal slowly, for he was still studious, the field glasses at his eyes.

“Ain’t they climbin’ his frame by now?” broke in Tug.

“No, they’re just as far behind him, and the light’s getting pretty bad for seeing, even up here–bad for shooting, down there! Ever read fairy tales, Tug?”

“It’s a fairy tale, if he gets away this time,” said Tug.

He indicated the down-headed horses which some of the men were working over now. They had ridden hard in some of the earlier relays that day. They were still spent.

“Yeah,” said Tug finally. “I’ve read a few fairy tales, I guess, when I was a fool kid.”

“What kind of idea d’you have about the prince or the young king, when you was reading ’em?” asked the marshal.

“Me? Well, you know how a fool kid is,” said Tug Ramsay. “Kind of a golden-haired, blue-eyed guy was what I always had in mind.”

“That’s the King Bird,” said the marshal.

“Go on,” said Ramsay incredulously.

“That’s what the King Bird looks like,” insisted the marshal. “Don’t you doubt that. Oh, he’s like a picture out of a book, and gilded in your own imagination, too. That’s the way he is!”

He lowered the glasses.

“They’ve dropped into a canyon that’s as black as night,” he went on. “And I don’t think that we’re going to have the King Bird in our bag this time, either.”

“Thirty men–a hundred hosses,” said Tug Ramsay. “He can’t get clean away from us!”

“It don’t seem possible,” murmured the marshal.

He looked wistfully toward the spot on which he had fixed the glasses. He was seeing only his own thoughts, and the purple and golden evening that moved out of the west in a wave and made all the distant country dim. One became suddenly conscious of the sky, and the star points that were pricked in it.

“We’ve done enough work to catch a gross of King Birds,” growled Tug Ramsay. “Dog-gone me if I understand it.”

“He’s a cut above us,” said the marshal curtly. “That’s all. He’s a cut above. And now I’ve gotta write that blasted report.”

He turned on his heel and went back into the ruins to one of the few remaining habitable rooms. Even this had only a partial roof left on it. But it gave him a sense of privacy, and therefore he had thrown his blankets into a corner. Now he sat down and with straining eyes, and a bowed head, he wrote until the words grew dim before his eyes. At that point, he signed his name, and stood up with a slight shudder, as though he had caught a chill.

Slowly the men gathered back to the main camp. For three hours, they were coming in, for some had to walk and lead horses that were so worn out that little life remained in them.

Few words were spoken at that camp that night. And those words were mostly curses.

Of course, the marshal might decide to start the hunt again, but it was unlikely.

The trap he had laid had been sprung the week before, and since then, for seven days, with prepared relays, and over selected ground, the hunt had gone on with hardly a cessation. Now men and beasts were exhausted, and the “King Bird” was somewhere off there in the tangle of black ravines that split the more northerly landscape–still free!

The marshal came out from his room, and got a pan of mulligan stew and a lump of bread together with a dipper of coffee from the cook. He retired with those provisions, consumed them, and sat a while in the moonlight, smoking, and looking out over the country.

It was a hard blow, a shrewd blow. He had felt that the chances in his favor were a hundred to one at the start; ten to one, even, on the morning of that day.

The beauty of that wide scene could not soothe him. The report which he would have to mail on the morrow rankled like a poison in his mind. And so he rolled into his blankets with a groan, and finally slept.

He was wakened by a soft sound. Horses could have stamped and neighed all the night long, in the camp, without disturbing him, but this soft whisper sank at once through the profound deeps of his slumber and jerked him erect, reaching for the gun that was under his blanket.

He did not draw it out. For the silhouette of a man was before him, and the gleam of a gun was near his head.

“The King Bird!” breathed Marshal Jim Hampton.

II. LAWMAN AND OUTLAW

THE room was composed of two wedges, one of black shadow, one of silver moonshine. In the shadow lay the marshal, and in the moonlight stood the King Bird.

“Get up,” he said. “Get up and take your gun. Don’t try a snap shot, though. I’m watching, Hampton.”

“All right,” said the marshal.

He picked the revolver from beneath the blanket, and stood up in his stockinged feet, and stared at the other. The handsome face of the King Bird was faintly marked with shadow, for he was smiling, not broadly, but as one who feels a great inward delight.

“There’s room in here,” said the King Bird. “Unless you want more space. How about standing with our backs to the wall? That will give us four or five paces in between. That do you, marshal? Or would you like more space, still?”

The marshal turned his head from side to side and measured the distance between the walls.

His mind flashed far abroad. He could see the items in the newspaper. “Marshal killed by desperado.” No, they would call him “celebrated marshal.” He had done enough to deserve an adjective or two in front of his name. He could hear his friends speak. Judge Hooker would say: “Well, Martha, they got Jim at last. The King Bird got him. I always knew that the King Bird would get him. He was getting too old to go after that kind of game.”

Not many comments would be made. He himself made few comments when his friends disappeared. The pain remained for a short time. Then the days covered it, and the world was as usual.

Now he was about to die. He knew that he could not match the merciless precision that was in the hand of the outlaw.

“All right, King,” said he. “We’d better get the moon a little higher, though. That’ll give us both a fair break.”

“No,” said the King Bird. “I’m not going to wait. I’ll take the slant of it in my eyes.”

The marshal managed a soft laugh.

“Is that it?” he said. “Not on your life, King. If you want this to be a fair match, have the moon square over us, or nearer in the middle of the sky than it is now. I’ve always known that I could beat you with a gun, boy. I don’t want to spoil my party by thinking that you threw any chances away.”

“Are you going to beat me, Hampton?” said the young man.

“I think so, King.”

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