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  SILVER

  TRAIL

  SILVER

  TRAIL

  A Western Story

  MAX BRAND

  First Skyhorse Publishing edition published 2013 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency

  Copyright © 2009, 2013 by Golden West Literary Agency.

  Silver Trail by Max Brand first appeared as a six-part serial in Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine (10/27/28-12/1/28). Copyright © 1928 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1956 by Dorothy Faust. Copyright © 2009 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material. Acknowledgment is made to Condé Nast Publications, Inc., for their co-operation. The name Max Brand® is a registered trademark with the United States Patent and Trademark Office and cannot be used for any purpose without express written permission.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file. ISBN: 978-1-62087-713-5

  EISBN: 978-1-62636-367-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  SILVER

  TRAIL

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  At timberline, John Signal paused. Before him, the pass narrowed to a gorge, dark and silent as a throat of iron; behind him, the slope dipped and folded like a sea heaped up by some prodigious wind until it descended to the green of the valley, far off, and quiet as standing water. By shading his eyes and peering, he could discern that glimmer of green clearly in spite of the blue mist of distance, and clear as a streak of quicksilver he made out the face of the river. Where the bright mark divided, there was the village that had been home to him. He never would see it again!

  At that thought, John Signal made his face as stern and as hard as the black cliffs before him; young Westerners refuse to melt with emotion, and Signal was only twenty-two. But he wondered, now, why he never before had appreciated the beauty of the white streets of the town, smoking with dust at every touch of the wind, or the narrow gardens on either side, and into his memory all the houses looked like the faces of dear friends, and all the hours of his life seemed to cling about those buildings, like plants rooted in rich mold. Suppose he went back to face them, rode to the sheriff’s office, and gave himself up?

  He turned his horse about with a sudden twitch of the reins, but, in so doing, he noticed how much thinner the gelding was across the shoulders, how much sharper the ridge of the neck. All the sleekness of the pasture fat had evaporated in the labor of lifting his rider from that far-off gleam of water to this upland. Should all that labor be wasted? Besides, if he returned, his friends would look at one another and smile, and say that John Signal’s nerve had failed in the great pinch. They would point out that it often happened before, and that the hero of the schoolyard and the vacant lot and the bunkhouse grew soft of heart when real danger came.

  Thinking of the town itself, John Signal was about to rush back in surrender. Thinking of the people in it, he became grimly resolute and turned the gelding back toward the throat of the pass.

  He was on the verge of timberline, which ran along the deeply incised profile of the mountains like a water mark—a stain left, as it were, by the lower atmosphere with its fogs and vapors and climbing mists. He, like some amphibious creature, for the first time was lifting his head and shoulders from the deep and breathing the pure air of the upper region. This thought pleased John Signal, and he turned and returned it in his mind, like a toy. Sometimes a metaphor is like a pack, bending the back, sometimes it is like a sword in the hand. The boy, much heartened, looked about him.

  The outermost line of the trees, in their unending battle against mountain wind and mountain cold, was flung forward, groveling to the ground, clinging desperately; limber pine, and alpine fir, the quaking aspen, black birch, and arctic willow still marched against the height and lived on where they had fallen. The air was as calm as the waters of a standing pool, but the trees seemed to be still fighting against the wind that had dwarfed, and broken, and distorted them, and yet it could not drive them back.

  It seemed to John Signal that he could understand this battle in another way. Where the forest could climb, man could climb, also, and the laws of man, and all beneath this water mark upon the mountains was the dominion of sheriff and judge—but now his horse was carrying him out of the lower region to a place above the law. He looked up to the dark portals of the pass as if to a gate on which he expected to read some inscription. Once inside the rocky throat, darkness fell over him.

  The echoes raised by the shod hoofs of his horse came faintly, hollowly upon his ear, floating upon air so thin that it hardly would bear up the sound, and the snorting and breathing of the gelding was like the puffing of another animal, pursuing him at a distance. John Signal felt as though he had ridden into a dream, and he was more than ever startled when he came to the end of the narrow pass and saw before him the treeless gardens of the upper mountains.

  He could see, now, that, although he had gone over one ridge of the world, he was not yet at the summit, but in a sort of half land, between the bottom and the top. To his left he looked up the face of a thousand-foot cliff, and at the top saw a mountain sheep—very like a tuft of cloud lodged on the rough edge of the rock—and beyond that lofty mass there were other peaks, but all before him and to the right was a comparatively level plateau without a tree, without a bush, but so thickly stippled by ten million flowers that it appeared not painted, but streaked with bits of tinted atmosphere. And for the firs
t time, having passed the dark gate to this land above the law, John Signal understood that it was not only cold and mighty, but also that it possessed a radiant and a lonely beauty of its own.

  The winter was not ended here, and never would be, even in August heats; all the northern slopes were agleam with ice or dazzling white with snow, but the flowers that covered the upland meadows—spring beauties, the daisy, the forget-me-not, purple asters, the goldenrod, and many more—advanced to the edge of the icy slopes. Yes, they even blossomed on the backs of the boulders, and through the very ice itself the avalanche lily pushed up to the sun, drilling its way by miracle to the air and to the light.

  He rode on past a whole slope of paintbrushes, white-pointed by wild buckwheat, and now he observed that these gardens had their own peculiar music, as well. Here rose a cloud of buzzing sounds and drifted down the wind—bees, filling the air with a sound of sleep, and yonder a flock of ptarmigans, startled from a feast on the buds of arctic willows, rose on noisy wings, whirled in a circle, flashed in the sun, and settled again to their banquet. Butterflies, too, were everywhere adrift, like unbalanced leaves, trying to settle to the ground and rarely succeeding, and then only to be tossed up again to waver in the air.

  This was all a very pretty scene, but the boy was hungry, and three or four hundred pounds of mutton was looking blandly down upon him from the heights. He uncased the rifle that he carried in a long holster beneath his right knee, the muzzle down. His hands were a little cold—this was not an atmosphere or a light in which he had been accustomed to shooting—but he told himself grimly that he must not waste ammunition. Suppose yonder puff of white wool upon the rock lip were a man with a rifle leveled in return? At this, with narrowed eye like a fighting man, he jumped the butt of his rifle into the hollow of his shoulder and fired. The sheep stood unmoved, but he lowered the gun without a second shot. One bullet a day would have to keep him in meat; otherwise, he simply would starve himself by way of punishment.

  Providence, one might have said, had heard this resolution as it was registered in the heart of Signal, and now it tipped the mountain sheep from the ledge. It went down a four-hundred-foot slide, cannoned out into empty air, and fell with a crunch not fifty yards away. Signal went to it curiously, rather than with an outburst of savage appetite. He turned the heavy body. He had aimed at the right shoulder, a little back, and in that spot, exactly, he found the bullet wound.

  When he saw this, he looked up and stared at the dark mouth of the pass through which he had come, and he smiled in content, and in something more than content. Then he set about butchering the sheep with care, for if he could preserve this meat in part by jerking it, he would not have to go hungry for weeks— it was a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound ram

  For fuel he had to go back through the pass and use his short-hafted axe on the tough, timberline trees, and, returning with a load of this firewood, he set about his cookery. Even then he dared not unsaddle his horse, and many a glance he cast at the shadowy mouth of the pass, for if they were following close upon his heels, they would have to come at him through this doorway. No matter how many, he was grimly confident that he could close that door and bolt it with bullets from the rifle.

  By noon he began his cookery; he did not finish it until evening, which came on early and cold when the sun got behind the western heights and all the valley was flooded with chill shadow. It had not been a very neat job. His fingers were scorched, and half of the meat was rather burned than cooked, besides a great deal of it would have to be seasoned yet more with heat before he could hope to preserve it. However, he felt that a day or two of the fierce white sun of these uplands would finish the cure, and so he rolled up the rest of his supply in the big sheepskin and prepared to find a shelter for the night.

  He was drawing up the cinches of his saddle when a shadow of danger crossed his mind, and, whirling about, he saw a horseman coming toward him, not from the mouth of the pass, but in the opposite direction. Even at that distance, he could see that it was a big man, on a big horse, and through the shadows he made out a horizontal gleam balanced across the pommel of the saddle—a mountaineer with a rifle in readiness, then.

  John made no secret of his own precaution, but threw his gun across the hollow of his left arm and placed a finger on the trigger. Then he watched the other come up as a look-out watched the approach of a strange ship at sea—a ship at sea in the days of pirates and the buccaneers.

  Looming first as a tall, imposing form, the stranger now appeared at close range rather a gaunt figure, his face overshadowed with a beard of many days’ growth, and his clothes loose and ragged to a surprising degree. With a keen eye he looked upon John Signal, a keen and sunken eye, and then made a little gesture of greeting, half a wave of the hand, half a military salute.

  Signal merely nodded, and kept the gun in readiness. “You raised quite a smoke, young feller,” said the man of the mountain. “I see that you got a bighorn. Your first?”

  And his lips twitched a little in a very faint smile beneath his beard. Signal suddenly felt very keenly his youth and his inexperience. He freshened his grip upon the rifle, as the thing that made him equal to any man. And then his sense of good manners returned to him.

  “If you’re hungry,” he said, “get down and eat.”

  Chapter Two

  The unshaven mountaineer did not hesitate. “I could use a bit of mutton,” he said, and swung his leg over the cantle of his saddle. He moved slowly, very like a man who is numbed by cold, and then sat down, cross-legged, on a stone beside the cooked meat that was pointed out by Signal.

  “It’s coming on cold, ain’t it?” asked the stranger. “It’s pretty cold,” admitted Signal, and kicked together the last embers of the fire, so that a blaze jumped up. And, doing this, he kept his face constantly, watchfully, toward the stranger. He had laid aside his rifle, but he had a Colt loose in the holster at his right thigh, and his right hand was never far from the projecting handle.

  He felt that he had some reason for this caution. There was something wolfish about the manner of the stranger in eating— something wolfish also in his way of turning his eye upon Signal. Part by part, the boy felt himself surveyed—his boots, even his revolver—the rifle he had put aside, the heavy belt of ammunition that loosely sagged about his hips.

  With amazing speed, the mountaineer had devoured a quantity of the mutton. Now he leaned back against the rock. “Got the makings?” he inquired.

  With his left hand, Signal extracted brown papers and tobacco from his pocket and passed them over, watching critically while the other made his smoke with fumbling fingers, lighted it, and drew in great drafts, so deep that very little of the smoke appeared again when he blew it forth.

  “You hunt, maybe?” asked Signal, allowing his curiosity the satisfaction of a single question.

  “I hunt now and then,” said the other. He nodded after he had answered; his eyes had grown strangely sleepy, and a vague smile appeared beneath his beard. Then he jerked up his head, suddenly awake.

  “You don’t pack a knife, I see.”

  “I have a knife here.”

  “That’d never pass for a knife . . . not if you have to live up here for a spell. Look at this one. It’s the best German steel.” He displayed it accordingly—a hunting knife with a long and a heavy blade. “I’m a little short,” he said. “I’m a little short of bullets. I’d trade that for a handful out of your belt, youngster.”

  “It’s worth a good deal more,” answered Signal.

  “I know it is. But I can’t expect to make a good trade at this end of the world. You throw in as many bullets as you want.”

  “And where shall I get more up here?” asked Signal.

  “Why, you’ll have enough to see yourself through, I suppose. You’re not going to camp up here forever, young feller?”

  “No. But ammunition may be worth more than gold,” said Signal.

  “Why, then,” replied the other, “I’ve got anothe
r knife. I can get along without this one. Suppose we say only half a dozen cartridges?”

  “And I take the knife?”

  “I’ve got another as good,” explained the stranger. “A few cartridges would be saving me from a long trip.”

  And he looked with such earnestness at young Signal that the latter hesitated and, for a fraction of an instant, turned his eyes upward in thought. Charity is highly commendable. He could live very well without another knife, but this ragged man of the mountains seemed desperately cornered. So thinking, with the scales turning to the side of kindness, John Signal saw a floating bird high above him, and knew the flight of a golden eagle—drifting across the range, perhaps, to drop on some prey in the richer lowlands.

  Then his glance flickered down, and he was in time to observe the last of a lightning movement that brought a Colt from somewhere about the person of the stranger and leveled it at the head of his host. There was hardly more chance to outspeed that gesture than there would have been, say, to beat the flick of a cat’s paw when it has started toward the mouse. And young John Signal was too bewildered even to attempt resistance.

  “I tried to treat you white,” said the other, “but you wouldn’t have that. Now you’re gonna get trouble instead. I’ll take that whole gun belt, kid. Just unbuckle that belt and let her drop, will you? Bein’ special careful about what your fingers do at the time of unbuckling?”

  Totally outraged, the boy exclaimed: “You’ve been fed when you were starving, stranger! Is this your comeback to me?”

  “Son,” said the other, pushing himself up to his feet with the same clumsy movement that Signal had noticed when he dismounted, “I’ll tell you how it is. There’s some that’s able to do the way they’re done by . . . and there’s some that ain’t got a chance unless they do a mite more.”

  He rendered justice to his own wit with a broad, slow grin, and this was the thing that unbalanced the scales for Signal. If he had been one of those cautious and thoughtful beings to whom probabilities mattered in a pinch, he never would have done the thing that, in the first place, drove him away from his home— but now he was in loftier regions—above the law. And he felt a pain in his temples, which was the beating of his blood there. Then he went for his Colt.