Iron Dust Read online

  He could have borne that loss; he could have retained the picture as something beautiful and beautifully impersonal if he had not heard her voice. As a touch of velvet will thrill all the nerves from the fingertips, so the sound of her voice had gone softly through him. And when her face was forgotten, the memory of that voice would keep tugging at his heartstrings.

  Suppose one wakens from a dream of music. The music is gone; only the happiness remains, together with the bitter sense of loss. Andy sat on the anvil with closed eyes and put his hand over his heart, where the pain was.

  He stood up presently, closed the shop, and went home. Afterward his uncle came in a fierce humor, slamming the door. He found Andy sitting in front of the table, staring down at his hands.

  “Buck Heath has been talkin’ about you,” said Jasper.

  Andy raised his head. “Look at ’em,” he said as he spread out his hands.

  “Buck Heath has been sayin’ things that would’ve got him shot when I was your age,” said Jasper more pointedly than he had ever spoken before. And he sickened when he saw that Andy refused to hear.

  “Look at ’em,” repeated Andy. “I been scrubbin’ ’em with sand soap for half an hour, and the oil and the iron dust won’t come out.”

  Uncle Jasper, who had a quiet voice and gentle manners, now stood rigid. “I wisht to God that some iron dust would work its way into your soul,” he said. He let his voice go big. “Oh, Lord, how I wisht you had some iron dust in your heart.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothin’ you could understand… you need a mother to explain things to you.”

  The other got up, white about the mouth. “I think I do,” said Andy. “I’m sick inside.”

  “Where’s supper?” demanded Jasper.

  Andy sat down again and began to consider his hands once more. “There’s something wrong… something dirty about this life.”

  “Is there?” Uncle Jasper leaned across the table, and once again the old ghost of a hope was flickering behind his eyes. “Wash off the dirt with soap, then.”

  “Soap won’t touch some kinds of dirt. Uncle Jas, I’m sick inside.”

  A picture often recurred to Jasper Lanning of the little boy he had first seen, straight, handsome—too handsome. It came home to him now, and he winked his eyes hard.

  “Who’s been talkin’ to you?”

  He thought of the grinning men of the saloon, the hidden words. Somebody might have gone out and insulted Andy to his face for the first time. There had been plenty of insults in the past two years, since Andy could pretend to manhood, but none that might not be overlooked. “Who’s been talkin’ to you?” repeated Uncle Jasper. “Confound that Buck Heath! He’s the cause of all the trouble.”

  “Buck Heath? Who’s he? Oh, I remember. What’s he got to do with the rotten life we lead here, Uncle Jas?”

  “So?” said the old man slowly. “He ain’t nothin’?”

  “Bah!” remarked Andy. “You want me to go out and fight him? I won’t. I got no love for fighting. It doesn’t buy me anything. I don’t like to talk to people when they’re mad. Makes me sort of sickish.”

  “Heaven above!” the older man invoked. “Ain’t you got shame? My blood in you, too.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” said Andy with a certain amount of reserve that was not natural to him. “You bother me. I want a little silence and a chance to think things out. There’s something wrong in the way I’ve been living.”

  “You’re the last to find it out.”

  “If you keep this up, I’m going to take a walk, so I can have quiet.”

  “You’ll sit there, son, till I’m through with you. Now, Andrew, these years I’ve been savin’ up for this moment when I was sure that…”

  To his unutterable astonishment Andy rose and stepped between him and the door. “Uncle Jas,” he said, “mostly I got a lot of respect for you and what you think. Tonight I don’t care what you or anybody else has to say. Just one thing matters. I feel I’ve been living in the dirt. I’m going out and see what’s wrong. Good night.”

  Chapter Three

  Uncle Jas was completely bowled over. Over against the wall as the door closed, he was saying to himself: “What’s happened? What’s happened?” As far as he could make out, his nephew retained very little fear of the authority of Jasper Lanning.

  One thing became clear to the old man. There had to be a decision between his nephew and some full-grown man, otherwise Andy was very apt to grow up into a sneaking coward. And in the matter of a contest, Jasper could not imagine a better trial horse than Buck Heath. For Buck was known to be violent with his hands, but he was not likely to draw his gun, and more than this, he might even be bluffed down without making a show of a fight. Uncle Jasper left his house, supperless, and struck down the street until he came to the saloon.

  He found Buck Heath warming to his work, resting both elbows on the bar. Bill Dozier was with him—Bill who was the black sheep in the fine old Dozier family. His brother, Hal Dozier, was by many odds the most respected and the most feared man in the region, but of all the good Dozier qualities, Bill inherited only their fighting capacity. He fought; he loved trouble, and for that reason, and not because he needed the money, he was now acting as a deputy sheriff. He was jesting with Buck Heath in a rather superior manner, half contemptuous, half amused by Buck’s alcoholic swaggerings. And Buck was just sober enough to perceive that he was being held lightly. He hated Dozier for that treatment, but he feared him too much to take open offense. It was at this opportune moment that old man Lanning, apparently half out of breath, touched Buck on the elbow.

  As Buck turned with a surly—“What in tarnation?”—the other whispered: “Be on your way, Buck. Get out of town, and get out of trouble. My boy hears you been talkin’ about him, and he allows as how he’ll get you. He’s out for you now.”

  The fumes cleared sufficiently from Buck Heath’s mind to allow him to remember that Jasper Lanning’s boy was no other than the milk-blooded Andy. He told Jasper to lead his boy on. There was a reception committee waiting for him there in the person of one Buck Heath.

  “Don’t be a fool, Buck,” said Jasper, glancing over his shoulder. “Don’t you know that Andy’s a crazy, man-killin’ fool when he gets started? And he’s out for blood now. You just slide out of town and come back when his blood’s cooled down.”

  Buck Heath took another drink from the bottle in his pocket, and then regarded Jasper moodily. “Partner,” he declared gloomily, putting his hand on the shoulder of Jasper, “maybe Andy’s a man-eater, but I’m a regular Andy-eater, and here’s the place where I go and get my feed. Lemme loose!” The he turned and kicked open the door of the saloon. “Where is he?” demanded the roaring Andy-eater. Less savagely he went on: “I’m lookin’ for my meat.”

  Jasper Lanning and Bill Dozier exchanged glances of understanding. “Partly drunk, but mostly yaller,” observed Bill Dozier. “Soon as the air cools him off outside, he’ll mount his horse and get on his way. But, say, is your boy really out for his scalp?”

  “Looks that way,” declared Jasper with tolerable gravity.

  “I didn’t know he was that kind,” said Bill Dozier.

  And Jasper flushed, for the imputation was clear. They went together to the window and looked out.

  It appeared that Bill Dozier was right. After standing in the middle of the street in the twilight for a moment, Buck Heath turned and went straight for his horse. A low murmur passed around the saloon, for other men were at the windows watching. They had heard Buck’s talk earlier in the day, and they growled as they saw him turn tail. He would have no pleasant reception when he next returned to Martindale.

  Two moments more and Buck would have been on his horse, but in those two moments luck took a hand. Around the corner came Andrew Lanning with his head bowed in thought.

  At once a roar went up from every throat in the saloon: “There’s your man! Go to him!”

 
; Buck Heath turned from his horse; Andrew lifted his head. They were face to face, and it was hard to tell to which one of them the other was the least welcome. But Andrew spoke first. A thick silence had fallen in the saloon. Most of the onlookers wore careless smiles, for the caliber of these two was known, and no one expected violence. But Jasper Lanning, at the door, stood with a sick face. He was praying in the silence.

  Everyone could hear Andrew say: “I hear you’ve been making a talk about me, Buck?”

  It was a fair enough opening. The blood ran more freely in the veins of Jasper. Perhaps the quiet of his boy had not been altogether the quiet of cowardice.

  “Aw,” answered Buck Heath, “don’t you be takin’ everything you hear for gospel. What kind of talk do you mean?”

  “He’s layin’ down,” said Bill Dozier, and his voice was soft but audible in the saloon. “The skunk.”

  “I was about to say,” said Andrew, “that I think you had no cause for talk. I’ve done you no harm, Buck.”

  The hush in the saloon became thicker; eyes of pity turned on that proved man, Jasper Lanning. He had bowed his head. And the words of the younger man had an instant effect on Buck Heath. They seemed to infuriate him.

  “You’ve done me no harm?” he echoed. He let his voice out; he even glanced back and took pleasurable note of the crowded faces behind the dim windows of the saloon. Just then Geary, the saloonkeeper, lighted one of the big lamps, and at once all the faces at the windows became black silhouettes. “You done me no harm?” repeated Buck Heath. “Ain’t you been goin’ about makin’ talk that you was after me? Well, son, here I am. Now let’s see you eat.”

  “I’ve said nothing about you,” declared Andy.

  There was a groan from the saloon. Once more all eyes flashed across to Jasper Lanning.

  “Bah!” snorted Buck Heath, and raised his hand.

  To crown the horror, the other stepped back. A little puff of alkali dust attested the movement.

  “I’ll tell you,” roared Buck, “you ain’t fittin’ for a man’s hand to touch, you ain’t! A hosswhip is more your style.”

  From the pommel of his saddle he snatched his quirt. It whirled, hummed in the air, and then cracked on the shoulders of Andrew. In the dimness of the saloon door, a gun flashed in the hand of Jasper Lanning. It was a swift draw, but he was not in time to shoot, for Andy, with a cry, ducked in under the whip as it raised for the second blow and grappled with Buck Heath. They swayed, then separated as though they had been torn apart. But the instant of contact had told Andy a hundred things. He was much smaller than the other, but he knew that he was far and away stronger after that grapple. It cleared his brain, and his nerves ceased jumping.

  “Keep off,” he said. “I’ve no wish to harm you.”

  “You houn’ dog!” yelled Buck, and leaped in with a driving fist.

  It bounced off the shoulder of Andrew. At the same time, he saw those banked heads at the windows of the saloon and knew it was a trap for him. All the scorn and the grief that had been piling up in him, all the cold hurt went into the effort as he stepped in and snapped his fist into the face of Buck Heath. He rose with the blow. All his energy, from wrist to instep, was in that lifting drive. Then there was a jarring impact that made his arm numb to the shoulder. Buck Heath looked blankly at him, wavered, and pitched loosely forward on his face. And his head bounced back as it struck the ground. It was a horrible thing to see, but it brought one wild yell of joy from the saloon—the voice of Jasper Lanning.

  Andrew had dropped to his knees and turned the body upon its back. The stone had been half buried in the dust, but it had cut a deep, ragged gash on the forehead of Buck. His eyes were open, glazed, his mouth sagged, and as the first panic seized Andy, he fumbled at the heart of the senseless man and felt no beat.

  “Dead!” exclaimed Andy, starting to his feet. Men were running toward him from the saloon, and their eagerness made him see a picture he had once seen before. A man standing in the middle of a courtroom—the place crowded—the judge speaking from behind the desk—“… to be hanged by the neck until…”

  A revolver came into the hand of Andrew. And when he found his voice, it was as thin and high as the voice of a girl, for there was a snapping tension in it. “Stop!” he called. The scattering line stopped like horses thrown back on their haunches by jerked bridle reins. “And don’t make no move,” continued Andy, gathering the reins of Buck’s horse behind him. A blanket of silence had dropped on the street. “The first gent that shows metal,” said Andy, “I’ll drill him. Keep steady.” He turned and flashed into the saddle. Once more his gun covered them. He found his mind working swiftly, calmly. His knees pressed the long holster of an old-fashioned rifle. He knew that make of gun from toe to foresight; he could assemble it in the dark.

  “You, Perkins! Get your hands away from your hip. Higher, I say!”

  He was obeyed. His voice was still thin, but it kept that line of hands high above their heads. When he moved his gun, the whole line winced; it was as if his will were communicated to them on electric currents. He sent his horse into a walk, into a trot, then dropped along the saddle, and was plunging at full speed down the street, leaving a trail of sharp alkali dust behind him and a long, tingling yell.

  Chapter Four

  Only one man in the crowd was old enough to recognize that yell, and the one man was Jasper Lanning. A great, singing happiness filled his heart and his throat. But the shouting of the men, as they tumbled into their saddles, cleared his brain. He called to Deputy Bill Dozier, who was kneeling beside the prostrate form of Buck Heath: “Call ’em off, Bill. Call ’em off, or by the Lord, I’ll take a hand in this! He done it in self-defense. He didn’t even pull a gun on Buck. Bill, call ’em off!”

  And Bill did it most effectually. He straightened and then got up. “Some of you fools get some sense, will you?” he called. “Buck ain’t dead… he’s just knocked out!”

  It brought them back, a shamefaced crew, laughing at each other.

  “Where’s a doctor?” demanded Bill Dozier.

  Someone who had an inkling of how wounds should be cared for was instantly at work over Buck. “He’s not dead,” pronounced this authority, “but he’s danged close to it. Fractured skull, that’s what he’s got. And a fractured jaw, too, looks to me.”

  Jasper Lanning was in the midst of a joyous monologue. “You seen it, boys? One punch done it. That’s what the Lannings are… the one-punch kind. And you seen him get to his gun? Handy. Lord, but it done me good to see him mosey that piece of iron offen his hip. And you looked sick, Gus, when he had you covered. What was it you said about my boy and nerve today? Maybe you’ve forgot. Well, I’ll promise you I won’t never tell him. Neat, wasn’t it? Clean getaway. See him take that saddle? Where was you with your gat, Joe? Nowhere! Looked to me like…”

  The voice of Bill Dozier broke in: “I want a posse. Who’ll ride with Bill Dozier tonight?”

  It sobered Jasper Lanning. “What d’you mean by that?” he asked. “Didn’t the boy fight clean?”

  “Maybe,” admitted Dozier. “But Buck may kick out. And if he dies, there’s got to be a judge talk to your boy. Come on. I want volunteers.”

  “Dozier, what’s all this fool talk?”

  “Don’t bother me, Lanning. I got a duty to perform, ain’t I? Think I’m going to let ’em say later on that anybody done this and then got away from Bill Dozier? Not me!”

  “Bill,” said Jasper, “I read in your mind. You’re lookin’ for action, and you want to get it out of Andy.”

  “I want nothin’ but to get him back.”

  “Think he’ll let you come close enough to talk? He’ll think you want him for murder, that’s what. Keep off of this boy, Bill. Let him hear the news… then he’ll come back well enough.”

  “You waste my time,” said Bill, “and all the while, a man that the law wants is puttin’ ground between him and Martindale. Now, boys, you hear me talk. Who’s with Bill Dozier to
bring back this milk-fed kid?”

  It brought a snarl from Jasper Lanning. “Why don’t you go after him by yourself, Dozier? I had your job once, and I didn’t ask no helpers on it.”

  But Bill Dozier apparently had no liking for a lonely ride. He made his demand once more, and the volunteers came out. There is always a fascination about a pursuit, and it acted now to make every one of the crowd come close about the deputy. He chose from them wisely, for he knew them all. He picked them for the sake of their steady hands, their cool heads, and also for their horses. A good many offered themselves out of mere shame, but Bill Dozier knew them, and not one was included. In five minutes he had selected five sturdy men, and every one of the five was a man whose name was known.

  They went down the street of Martindale without shouting and at a steady lope that their horses could keep up indefinitely. Old Jasper followed them to the end of the village and kept on watching through the dusk, until the six horsemen loomed on the hill beyond against the skyline. They were still cantering, and they rode close together like a tireless pack of wolves. After this, old Jasper went back to his house, and when the door closed behind him, a lonely echo went through the place.

  “Bah!” said Jasper. “I’m getting soft.”

  In the meantime, the posse went on, regardless of direction. There were only two possible paths for a horseman out of Martindale—east and west the mountains blocked the way—and young Lanning had started north. Straight ahead of them, the mountains shot up on either side of Grant’s Pass, and toward this natural landmark, Bill Dozier led the way, not that he expected to have to travel as far as this. He felt fairly certain that the fugitive would ride out his horse at full speed, and then he would camp for the night and make a fire.

  Andrew Lanning was town-bred and soft of skin from the work at the forge. When the biting night air got through his clothes, he would need warmth from a fire.