THE UNTAMED
BY MAX BRAND
1919
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. Pan of the Desert
II. The Panther
III. Silent Shoots
IV. Something Yellow
V. Four in the Air
VI. Laughter
VII. The Mute Messenger
VIII. Red Writing
IX. The Phantom Rider
X. The Strength of Women
XI. Silent Bluffs
XII. Partners
XIII. The Lone Riders Entertain
XIV. Delilah
XV. The Cross Roads
XVI. The Three of us
XVII. The Panther's Paw
XVIII. Cain
XIX. Real Men
XX. One Trail Ends
XXI. One Way Out
XXII. The Woman's Way
XXIII. Hell Starts
XXIV. The Rescue
XXV. The Long Ride
XXVI. Black Bart Turns Nurse
XXVII. Nobody Laughs
XXVIII. Whistling Dan, Desperado
XXIX. "Werewolf"
XXX. "The Manhandling"
XXXI. "Laugh, Damn it!"
XXXII. Those who See in the Dark
XXXIII. The Song of the Untamed
XXXIV. The Coward
XXXV. Close in!
XXXVI. Fear
XXXVII. Death
XXXVIII. The Wild Geese
THE UNTAMED
CHAPTER I
PAN OF THE DESERT
Even to a high-flying bird this was a country to be passed over
quickly. It was burned and brown, littered with fragments of rock,
whether vast or small, as if the refuse were tossed here after the
making of the world. A passing shower drenched the bald knobs of a
range of granite hills and the slant morning sun set the wet rocks
aflame with light. In a short time the hills lost their halo and
resumed their brown. The moisture evaporated. The sun rose higher and
looked sternly across the desert as if he searched for any remaining
life which still struggled for existence under his burning course.
And he found life. Hardy cattle moved singly or in small groups and
browsed on the withered bunch grass. Summer scorched them, winter
humped their backs with cold and arched up their bellies with famine,
but they were a breed schooled through generations for this fight
against nature. In this junk-shop of the world, rattlesnakes were
rulers of the soil. Overhead the buzzards, ominous black specks
pendant against the white-hot sky, ruled the air.
It seemed impossible that human beings could live in this
rock-wilderness. If so, they must be to other men what the lean, hardy
cattle of the hills are to the corn-fed stabled beeves of the States.
Over the shoulder of a hill came a whistling which might have been
attributed to the wind, had not this day been deathly calm. It was fit
music for such a scene, for it seemed neither of heaven nor earth,
but the soul of the great god Pan come back to earth to charm those
nameless rocks with his wild, sweet piping. It changed to harmonious
phrases loosely connected. Such might be the exultant improvisations
of a master violinist.
A great wolf, or a dog as tall and rough coated as a wolf, trotted
around the hillside. He paused with one foot lifted and lolling,
crimson tongue, as he scanned the distance and then turned to look
back in the direction from which he had come. The weird music changed
to whistled notes as liquid as a flute. The sound drew closer. A
horseman rode out on the shoulder and checked his mount. One could not
choose him at first glance as a type of those who fight nature in a
region where the thermometer moves through a scale of a hundred and
sixty degrees in the year to an accompaniment of cold-stabbing winds
and sweltering suns. A thin, handsome face with large brown eyes and
black hair, a body tall but rather slenderly made--he might have been
a descendant of some ancient family of Norman nobility; but could such
proud gentry be found riding the desert in a tall-crowned sombrero
with chaps on his legs and a red bandana handkerchief knotted around
his throat? That first glance made the rider seem strangely out of
place in such surroundings. One might even smile at the contrast, but
at the second glance the smile would fade, and at the third, it would
be replaced with a stare of interest. It was impossible to tell why
one respected this man, but after a time there grew a suspicion of
unknown strength in this lone rider, strength like that of a machine
which is stopped but only needs a spark of fire to plunge it into
irresistible action. Strangely enough, the youthful figure seemed in
tune with that region of mighty distances, with that white, cruel sun,
with that bird of prey hovering high, high in the air.
It required some study to guess at these qualities of the rider, for
they were such things as a child feels more readily than a grown man;
but it needed no expert to admire the horse he bestrode. It was a
statue in black marble, a steed fit for a Shah of Persia! The stallion
stood barely fifteen hands, but to see him was to forget his size. His
flanks shimmered like satin in the sun. What promise of power in the
smooth, broad hips! Only an Arab poet could run his hand over that
shoulder and then speak properly of the matchless curve. Only an Arab
could appreciate legs like thin and carefully drawn steel below the
knees; or that flow of tail and windy mane; that generous breast with
promise of the mighty heart within; that arched neck; that proud head
with the pricking ears, wide forehead, and muzzle, as the Sheik said,
which might drink from a pint-pot.
A rustling like dried leaves came from among the rocks and the hair
rose bristling around the neck of the wolflike dog. With outstretched
head he approached the rocks, sniffing, then stopped and turned
shining eyes upon his master, who nodded and swung from the saddle. It
was a little uncanny, this silent interchange of glances between the
beast and the man. The cause of the dog's anxiety was a long rattler
which now slid out from beneath a boulder, and giving its harsh
warning, coiled, ready to strike. The dog backed away, but instead of
growling he looked to the man.
Cowboys frequently practise with their revolvers at snakes, but one of
the peculiarities of this rider was that he carried no gun, neither
six-shooter nor rifle. He drew out a short knife which might be used
to skin a beef or carve meat, though certainly no human being had ever
used such a weapon against a five-foot rattler. He stooped and rested
both hands on his thighs. His feet were not two paces from the poised
head of the snake. As if marvelling at this temerity, the big rattler
tucked back his head and sounded the alarm again. In response the
cowboy flashed his knife in the sun. Instantly the snake struck but
the deadly fangs fell a few inches short of the riding boots. At the
same second the man moved. No eye could follow the leap of his hand as
it darted down and fastened around the snake just behind the head. The
long brown body writhed about his wrist, with rattles clashing. He
severed the head deftly and tossed the twisting mass back on the
rocks.
Then, as if he had performed the most ordinary act, he rubbed his
gloves in the sand, cleansed his knife in a similar manner, and
stepped back to his horse. Contrary to the rules of horse-nature, the
stallion had not flinched at sight of the snake, but actually advanced
a high-headed pace or two with his short ears laid flat on his
neck, and a sudden red fury in his eyes. He seemed to watch for an
opportunity to help his master. As the man approached after killing
the snake the stallion let his ears go forward again and touched his
nose against his master's shoulder. When the latter swung into the
saddle, the wolf-dog came to his side, reared, and resting his
forefeet on the stirrup stared up into the rider's face. The man
nodded to him, whereat, as if he understood a spoken word, the dog
dropped back and trotted ahead. The rider touched the reins and
galloped down the easy slope. The little episode had given the effect
of a three-cornered conversation. Yet the man had been as silent as
the animals.
In a moment he was lost among the hills, but still his whistling came
back, fainter and fainter, until it was merely a thrilling whisper
that dwelt in the air but came from no certain direction.
His course lay towards a road which looped whitely across the hills.
The road twisted over a low ridge where a house stood among a grove of
cottonwoods dense enough and tall enough to break the main force of
any wind. On the same road, a thousand yards closer to the rider of
the black stallion, was Morgan's place.