Sun and Sand

  Copyright © 2013 by Golden West Literary Agency

  First Skyhorse Publishing edition published 2016 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency

  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.

  “The Flaming Rider” by Peter Henry Morland first appeared in Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine (12/29/28). Copyright © 1928 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1956 by Dorothy Faust. Copyright © 2013 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material. Acknowledgment is made to Condé Nast Publications, Inc., for its cooperation.

  “Outlaw Buster” by Max Brand first appeared in Complete Western Book Magazine (8/37). Copyright © 1937 by Newsstand Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1965 by the Estate of Frederick Faust. Copyright © 2013 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material.

  “Sun and Sand” by Hugh Owen first appeared in Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine (2/16/35). Copyright © 1935 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1962 by Estate of Frederick Faust. Copyright © 2013 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material. Acknowledgment is made to Condé Nast Publications, Inc., for its cooperation.

  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.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Brian Peterson

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63220-267-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-756-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Flaming Rider

  Outlaw Buster

  Sun and Sand

  The Flaming Rider

  In 1928 Frederick Faust published ten serials and eleven short novels in the pages of Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine. Additionally a five-part serial appeared in Far West Illustrated. “The Flaming Rider” appeared in the December 29 issue of Western Story Magazine under Faust’s Peter Henry Morland byline. It is an American Indian story in which heavy betting on a horse race inevitably leads to tension at the newly established Fort Meany, where large groups of Cheyennes, Blackfeet, and Crows have gathered to trade their goods.

  I

  This happened when Fort Meany was one year old.

  For forty years, Henry Meany had trapped and hunted and traded before he decided to build his fort, and then he drew on all his experience in order to select a perfect place.

  He did not want the headwaters of some large stream, up which rivals would come with their keelboats and undersell him. He simply wanted wood and water and a strategic position in relation to the buffalo on the one hand and the Indians on the other. So he selected a bend of the Little Silver and hurried up the walls of his fort. They were erected of sod, cut thick, of course, and wet down to make them solid—wet down and tamped, but at the best not very satisfactory walls.

  On the outside, those walls were surfaced with ten- and twelve-foot saplings, fixed deeply in the earth and giving a sheer face above the reach of a horseman. The mound rose a little above this, and there was ample room on top for a man to walk at ease or to lie prone and shoot with his rifle through the grooves that were sunk in the upper surface of the mound.

  Inside of this thick, clumsy wall, there were rude shelters made of logs, of buffalo hides, or of more turf, stretching around in a circle. Inside of those shelters were the goods of the traders and, usually cached deep in the cellar rooms, the proceeds of the thriving trade with the Indians.

  Free traders were welcome. Those who hauled goods down from the river could, if they chose, sell out at a certain price to Henry Meany. Or, on the other hand, they were permitted to stay, enjoying the advantages of the wood and the water at the fort and of the concourse of Indians who were fairly sure to resort there, lured by the ancient fame of Henry Meany and his fair dealing. In this case, it was expected that they should pay down to the fort a proportion of their profits, ranging from ten to five percent. Actually the percentage was less, for if Henry Meany took one of ten buffalo robes, he did not see to it that his selection was one of the best.

  For all these reasons, the pool of merchandise that collected there at the beginning of the season was large and rich; the traders kept trekking south from the river, and the Indians, lured by the report of “big doings,” began to sweep in from all directions. There were so many of them that they promised to load down the traders with robes and furs. And, therefore, another caravan was not unwelcome.

  Henry Meany in person, as was his custom, rode out to welcome it, his son attending him, and as soon as he saw the oxen in the distance, swaying across the prairie, he said to his son: “The captain of that outfit is a man of sense, Charlie. He’s brought his animals through in fine condition.”

  Usually a few men galloped wildly ahead when a caravan of wagons came within sight of such a trading post, but the advance guard of this train moved with more dignity and finally showed as three typical scouts of the Western country.

  The ponies of the riders accompanying the caravan moved softly at the Indian foxtrot, and rough as the horses appeared, the men were still rougher, and yet their costumes were fitted to their life. They wore coarse shirts, blue as a rule, and long coats of buckskin that fanned out at the bottom, so as to give the rider plenty of room in the saddle. Below the waist they were dressed like Indians, with leather trousers or leggings and with moccasins on their feet. Some of them wore soft hats, always with wide, flopping brims that curled up and down as the wind struck them, while others had bits of cloth wrapped, Moorish fashion, around the head. These were young men, indifferent as Indians to the glare of the prairie sun.

  These riders were equipped for the longest journey, almost always with a long, small-bore rifle kept in a case to protect it from the weather and with knives, whetstones, pouches, and horns for bullets and powder, even with bullet molds, with leather wrapped around the handles.

  The advance guard now approached the fort. On either side was a young man, and in the center was an imposing rider with silver hair flowing down over his shoulders or lifting gently in the wind. His face showed no more than middle age, but his features had the look of being hammered by time and weather, and his jaw was habitually locked in grim determination.

  It was not a face easy to look into; the eyes rested upon it as upon a book that is sure to contain tales of wild adventures. One could feel the burn of the desert and the white sweep of the blizzard as he drew nearer; one could feel starvation, the exhaustion of endless marches, long seasons of watchfulness when every bush might hold an enemy. But though his hair was whitened, it somehow made him look only more fierce and formidable. One felt that here was a man who would be master of all situations.

  When he came up to Meany, he raised his hand, in Indian salute, then, with a mutual murmur of pleasure, the two men shook hands.

  The newcomer was William Duncan, long known to
Meany, associated with him in many enterprises, and famous throughout the West. He was at home in the mountains, and a leader of mountain men. He was at home in the plains, and a leader in the more dangerous work there. He was celebrated as trapper, hunter, scout, and Indian fighter. Men said that twenty brass tacks had been hammered into the stock of his rifle.

  Duncan and Meany now drew back upon a hummock. The youngsters gave them respectful distance. Duncan began to smoke as the train went by. He took out a bowl of red stone, the famous pipestone of the Indian plainsman. He filled this with tobacco mixed with shreds of fragrant bark, fitted a long stem to the bowl, sprinkled powdered buffalo dung on top of the smoking mixture, and lighted the pipe with a shower of sparks from his flint and steel. These preparations were made without haste, and yet with the skilled speed of long practice.

  “I’ve never seen cattle come in from the river looking fatter,” said Meany.

  Duncan blew a puff of smoke upon his hands, which he rubbed together. He blew another puff to the ground, directed a third toward the sky, and automatically passed the pipe to his companion.

  Meany smiled faintly at the Indian ceremony through which Duncan was passing with such mechanical absentmindedness, but he was careful to accept the pipe gravely, puff at it in the same fashion, and pass it back in exactly the same position in which he had received it. One never could tell. Every pipe had its special way to be smoked, and not even Meany could know to what extent the Indian superstitions of the plains had seized upon the individual trapper and trader.

  “They’re fatter cattle than I’ll ever bring in again,” said Duncan. “But I’ve had an anchor all the trip. I’m five days late. I’ve been anchored on the way.” He said this with a gradually increasing heat.

  Meany did not venture a remark; he continued to watch the oxen heaving past, leaning on their yokes, and swaying in clumsy unison. They were very slow, but the thrust of their weight had a resistless force far beyond that of a mule or a horse. By the size and condition of the animals, and by the manner in which they pulled and the sort of vehicle they were drawing, Meany could estimate almost to a hundredweight the burden of the cargo in every wagon.

  “You’re traveling heavy, though,” he remarked to Duncan.

  “I’m heavy with meat today,” said Duncan. “I’m bringing in enough to fill the bellies of every man in the fort, and all the red men outside of it . . . even if they’re forty-pound feasters.”

  Meany expressed his pleasure, for it was one of his hardest tasks to get in meat sufficient for food for all who surrounded the fort. The buffalo were constantly driven from the vicinity of the camp by random single hunters. His own hunting parties had to go to a great distance, kill the meat, jerk it, and cart it back. It cost time and money and only kept them in dry meat. This fresh supply was a godsend.

  “But,” said Duncan, “that’s not the reason why I’m late. There . . . there’s the reason,” he broke out, and pointed far to the rear.

  In that distance, Meany could see a wagon stagger over the edge of a hill and roll slowly down it, drawn by four animals in a motley group. “That wagon is falling over, man,” he said.

  “It’s been falling these last four days,” said Duncan with extreme bitterness, “but the shiftless fool has always said that he thought it would stand up until he got it to the fort. The load shifted crossing a creek bed four days ago, and it’s been sagging over like that more and more every moment. Hang me, if it don’t break my heart to see him get even this close to the fort with it.”

  “Who is it?” asked Meany, and immediately regretted the question, because it called a torrent of terrible curses from the captain of the caravan.

  Finally intelligible words broke through the profanity. “It’s a greenhorn! It’s a tenderfoot jackass! It’s a fool!” yelled Duncan.

  “From the East, eh?”

  “The farthest possible,” said Duncan. “Where there’s no knowledge that’s worth a man knowing. A gambling, drunken, worthless, shiftless, grinning fool.”

  “How did he get out here?”

  “His family sent him. The old story . . . no good at home, so let him go out and rot on the prairies. He’ll begin to do so soon. He won’t live five days in the fort. I hope some red man gets him. Reached Saint Louis with the price of five fine wagons, and the cattle to pull them. Reached upriver with the price of one, or less . . . gambled the rest away . . . gambles all the time . . . gambles for anything . . . gambles like an Indian. A useless, worthless idiot. Last man every morning to outspan. Last man in every evening. Always at the end of the line. Always the tail. Lord, but I’ve wanted to have the wringing of his throat . . .” He stopped, spluttering.

  “You should have cut him out and let him stay behind,” said Meany grimly. “Puppies like that should be taught with a whip.”

  “You can’t cut off a grinning half-wit,” said Duncan. “Wait . . . you’ll see.”

  II

  The rest of the caravan went by as smoothly as the hands of a clock. So extraordinary was the discipline that stern Captain Duncan had imposed upon the members of the outfit that they did not press forward with any undue haste in drawing close to the fort, but went on in the same plodding manner in which they had gone across the plains.

  Each driver or horseman turned and gave some sort of a salute to Meany and Duncan in passing, and then they went on, and the last wagon passed in that compact troop. The surface of the prairie was beginning to be chopped up and ground to pieces where the wheels had beaten through the upper crust, and every puff of wind now blew a cloud of dust away.

  But still the wagon to the rear came slowly, slowly forward. In the distance, it seemed to progress hardly faster than the minute hand of a clock, and even when it drew much closer, it did no more than crawl across the surface of the plain.

  There were several reasons for the slowness, and Meany took heed of them one by one. In the first place, wherever the wagon lurched, the wheels on one side lifted in dangerous fashion from the surface of the road, and the entire wagon threatened to pitch upon the other side. In the second place, the wagon itself was so old, and the wheels were set on at such varying and crazy angles, that each seemed to be taking a way of its own, or struggling to do so, and there was a terrible groaning as they strove to part company.

  But the wagon and its behavior were nothing compared with the animals that drew the load. There was a tall, slab-sided steer on the near wheel, and a little, dumpy, cream-colored cow on the off. Before this span appeared a mule, gray with innumerable years, lofty, bearded with time, and sinking at the knees, and beside him staggered a two-year-old colt, gaunt and hump-backed with the labor. In the lead marched a shaggy Indian pony, with ears flattened and nostrils sucked in with age, and beside it the team was completed by a burro hardly larger than a good-size dog.

  Beside this strange assortment of working beasts walked a moon-faced half-breed, with the coloring of a smoky Indian and the lips and eyes of a Negro. He punched the six along with a red-tipped goad, and bellowed at them in a voice sometimes whining high and sometimes booming like thunder.

  But to the windward, out of the dust, there appeared a young man on a beautiful thoroughbred. He sat to the side upon it, his back ungracefully bowed out, while he thrummed upon a guitar, and the sound of his voice came sweet and small with distance to the ears of Meany.

  “Is that it?” asked Meany with something like awe.

  Captain Duncan looked on his companion. He was speechless with rage. “Five days late,” he managed to say at last. “I threatened to leave the fool behind me. He only laughed and seemed to think it was a joke. If the march had been a hundred miles farther, I would have cut him from the outfit and let the Indian dogs chew his bones for supper. Look at him!”

  This last of all the caravan, seeing the two beside the road, turned toward them at once, while Duncan went on: “Do you see? Yonder and yonder? Every day half a dozen or a dozen of those buzzards have been in the offing, ready to swoop do
wn and eat up that laggard and his wagonload. And every day I’ve had to halt and wait . . . or send back an extra span to haul him into line. The whole caravan has suffered for that fool. The whole caravan. I wish that the redskins had picked him off. I can’t imagine why they haven’t.”

  Here and there, forms of Indians drifted, easily told by their position on their horses, their legs very high and their bodies jutting forward, their backs rounded. It was a very clumsy position for riding at a jog or at a walk, but when the horses galloped, every Indian was in tune with it, like a jockey. It seemed evident that they were waiting for some accident to happen to the last of the wagons, and then, even so close to the fort, they would fly down and pick up what they could in the way of plunder, a coup or two, and perhaps a random scalp to dry over their fires.

  But at last, seeing that Meany and Duncan were waiting for the laggard, they pulled to the right and to the left, as though at a signal, and suddenly disappeared in the rolling ground. The stranger, in the meantime, was gradually coming up to the two elders.

  “And what’s his name?” asked Meany.

  “A good name and a good family . . . Tarlton. But you’ll have a fool even in a palace, eh? They’ve shoveled him out, and here he is. I wouldn’t trade him for a slave. I wouldn’t trade him for the little finger of a slave. Cardsharp and pistol fighter! Faugh!”

  Meany saw a handsome youngster of not more than twenty-five. Not that twenty-five was then particularly young in the West, where often a partisan would reach celebrity at such an age, but these fellows were young in years only and had been hardened by a whole life on the prairie or in the mountains.

  Tarlton, however, had obviously been sheltered. He had the open, careless eye that is the sign of long nurture; his skin was more pink than brown, in spite of the long journey across the plains, and his laughter as he came up with the two plainsmen was as freely flowing as the laughter of a child.

  This misfit upon the plains wore riding trousers, a closely fitted jacket, and a scarf wrapped about his throat—a silken scarf. There was no sign of a knife at his belt, no rifle balanced across the pommel of his saddle. The saddle itself was a light English pad equipped with two pistol holsters from which the handles protruded a little. This was his only armament.