The Hair-Trigger Kid by Max Brand (best sci fi novels of all time TXT) 📕
"The curtain ain't up," said the sheriff, "but I reckon that the stage is set and that they's gunna be an entrance pretty pronto."
"Here's somebody coming," said Georgia, gesturing toward the farther end of the street.
"Yeah," said the sheriff, "but he's comin' too slow to mean anything."
"Slow and earnest wins the race," said another.
They were growing impatient; like a crowd at a bullfight, when the entrance of the matador is delayed too long.
"We're wasting the day," said Milman to his family. "That's a long ride ahead of us."
"Don't go now," said Georgia. "I've got a tingle in my finger tips that says something is going to happen."
Other voices were rising, jesting, laughing, when some one called out something at the farther end of the veranda, and instantly there was a wave of silence that spread upon them all.
"What is it?" whispered Milman to the sheriff.
"Shut up!" said the sheriff. "They say th
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up the path.
At the gate he paused to remove the wedges from the bells at his heels,
and as he crossed the street they clinked merrily in tune with every step
he took making his way to the mare.
He gathered the reins.
“Billy had to go out, and couldn’t wait for me, boys,” said he. “Matter
of fact, there was nobody home.”
He swung into the saddle and added: “Except Three-card Alec. He was so
glad to see me that he slipped coming down the stairs, and I’m mighty
afraid that he’s broken his leg. Any friend of his here to give poor Alec
a hand?”
Out of the town, as he had come into it, the Kid rode most leisurely. No
one halted him; and only Tommy Malone asked him to have a drink.
He refused the drink, with apologies for the demands upon his time which
made it impossible for him to linger, no matter how he wished to. But
when he got farther down the street, a little freckle-faced boy of nine
ran out into the street and shouted at him in a voice as thin and
squeaking as the sound of a finger nail on a pane of glass. It was little
Dave Trainor, “Chuck” Trainor’s boy. Some of the neighboring women heard
and saw what followed.
They watched, breathless. It was known that Trainor had made a lot of
money in the mines recently, and it was more than possible that the
terrible wild man, the Kid, might kidnap this child and hold him for
ransom.
Old Betty Worth, who had fought Indians in her day, went so far as to get
the old-fashioned Kentucky rifle, loaded with a bullet which contained an
ounce of lead. This she rested on the corner of a window sill, and
looking out through the branches of the honeysuckle vine, drew her bead
and looked at the very heart of the Kid. At the first move he made, Betty
was determined to shoot him dead. And she probably could have done it,
for, even without a rest, she was known to have shot a squirrel out of a
treetop only the year before.
The scene between the Kid and freckled young Dave Trainor progressed
somewhat as follows:
“Hey!” yelled Davey.
“Hey!” yelled the Kid in return.
“Hello!” shouted Davey, waving.
“Hello!” shouted the Kid.
“Hey, wait a minute, will you?” said Davey.
“Sure I will,” said the Kid.
He turned in the saddle. The mare, unguided, as it seemed, walked
straight up to Davey and paused before him.
“Say, how did you make her do that?” asked Davey. “Why, she reads my
mind, most of the time,” said the Kid. “Golly!” said Davey; then added
briskly: “Not that I believe you a dog-gone bit!”
“That’s a mighty big word that you’re saying,” said the Kid. “Yeah?” said
dangerous Davey. “It’s what I say, though. Are you the Kid?”
“That’s what my friends call me,” said the Kid.
“What’s your real name?” demanded Davey.
How many a sheriff, deputy, editor, and hungry reporter in that wide and
fair land would have been glad of an answer to that question.
“My real name depends on where I am,” said the Kid. “You take one single,
solitary name, it’s hardly enough to spread over a lot of country the way
that I live and travel.”
“Why ain’t it?” asked Davey, doubtful, but willing to be convinced.
“Well, south of the river the Mexicans like to hear a man called by a
Spanish-sounding name.”
“Like what?”
“Well, like Pedro Gonzales, say.”
“Golly,” said Davey, “anybody what called you a greaser name like that,
you’d about eat them, I reckon!”
“Oh, no,” said the Kid. “I hate trouble. That’s why I change my name so
much.”
“Say why ag’in?”
“Why, to be a Spaniard with the Spanish, and a Mexican with the Mexicans.
They used to call me Louis, up in Canada, when I was among the French
Canadians.”
“Didn’t you punch them in the nose?” asked Davey candidly. “Of course
not. I was glad to have them take me in like that.”
“What else are you called?” asked Davey.
“Oh, I’ve been called Johnson in Minnesota, and Taliaferro in Virginia,
and a lot of other things. These States in our country are so big, old
son, that a fellow has to have a lot of different names. What are you
called, son?”
“Well, I’m like you,” said Davey. “It depends on where I am. Over to the
south side of town they just call me Red. I licked two of ‘em last week
for callin’ me that, but still they call me Red. I don’t care. I can
stand it, I guess.”
“I guess you can,” said the Kid. “What’s a name or two, anyway?”
“That’s just the way that I look at it,” said Davey. “I don’t mind, and I
get a chance to punch their heads once in a while. Down on the creek, all
of the Banks boys—they got a great big place there, with the whangin’est
swing that you ever see—they call me Freckles. When I ain’t got a spot
on my face compared to Turkey-egg Banks.”
“Freckles is a good outstanding name,” said the Kid.
“D’you think so? Well, they call me that, anyway, and they’re all too big
for me to lick.”
“Are they? Maybe you’ll grow to that, though.”
“Yeah, maybe I will, but a Banks, he takes a pile of licking.”
“Any other names?”
“Well, around here, they call me Slippy, account of me being hard to
catch at tag. They’s a lot that can run faster, but I get through their
fingers, somehow.”
“Slippy is a good name, too. I never heard a better flock of names than
you carry, partner. Any more?”
“They call me Davey, during the school term, a lot of ‘em.”
“Yeah. That’s a good name, too. Any others?”
“Pa calls me Snoops—I dunno why. There don’t seem to be much meaning to
it. Ma calls me David when she’s feelin’ good, and David Trainor when I
ain’t brought in the wood, or wore my rubbers on rainy days, or things
like that.”
“Well, Davey Trainor,” said the Kid, “I’m mighty glad to meet you, sir.”
“The same goes by me,” said Davey.
He reached up and shook hands.
“Is it straight talk,” said Davey, “that you can do all of them things?”
“What things?” asked the Kid.
“I mean, that you can shoot a sparrow right out of the air? There’s one
now up there on that telephone wire! And I suppose that you got a gun
with you?”
The Kid looked at the sparrow, shook his head, and then snatched out the
revolver. As it exploded, the sparrow flirted off the wire and dipped
into the air, leaving a few little, translucent feathers which fluttered
slowly down to the earth—slowly, since they were not much heavier than
the air through which they fell.
The Kid put up the heavy Colt revolver with a single flashing movement.
“You see, that’s one thing that I can’t do,” said he.
“Golly, but you knocked feathers out of it, and you didn’t take no sight
nor nothin’.”
“That was only a lucky shot,” said the Kid. “Don’t you pay any attention
to people who talk about shooting sparrows at any sort of a good
distance, Davey.”
“What happened to the gun?”
“Why it went back home, where it lives.”
Davey laughed.
“You’re mighty slick, all right,” said he. “Can the mare do everything,
too?”
“Like what?”
“Come when she’s called?”
“Yes.”
“Walk on her hind legs?”
“Yes.”
“Open a barn door?”
“Yes, if it’s only to lift the latch and give a pull.”
“Lie down when you tell her to?”
“Yes.”
“Sit down, too?”
“Yes.”
“Kneel for you to get on?”
“Yes.”
“Golly,” said the boy, “that’s an awful lot. I can’t hardly think of no
more things for a hoss to do. What else can she do?”
“Oh, she can do a lot of things besides. She has brains, son. She thinks
for herself right along, and she does a lot of thinking for me, too.”
“Like what, Kid?”
“Why, like telling me if we’re crossing a bad bridge.”
“Can she tell that?”
“Yes, she can smell that. She’s got a nose like a wolf. And I can sleep
out, with her for company as safely as though I had the sense of a wolf
myself. She reads everything that crosses her wind.”
“My golly, my golly,” said Davey Trainor, almost bitterly, “it must make
you pretty tired to have to spend time with most folks, whan you got a
hoss like that to be with.”
“Yes,” said the Kid soberly, “most people make me pretty tired, unless
they have plenty of names.”
“You wouldn’t want to do something for me?”
“Why not? You’ve got about as many names as I have.”
“Well, would you let me see her do something?”
“Of course I will. You tell me what.”
“Well, make her stand up on her hind legs.”
Davey could not hear or see a command or a sign, but the mare presently
heaved up, her forehoofs flipping close to Davey’s face.
Down rocked the mare again.
“Golly!” said Davey. “What else can she do? She’s wonderful, ain’t she?
Could I touch her?”
“I’ll ask her,” said the Kid with gravity.
He leaned and murmured, or appeared to murmur, in the ear of the Duck
Hawk, at which she reached out with a sudden snaky movement and plucked
Davey by the ragged forelock, sun-faded to the color of burned grass.
“Hold on!” said the rider, keeping his eye fast on the boy’s face. And
Davey had not altered a trifle in color. He merely set his teeth and then
grinned.
“Would you like to ride her?” asked the Kid suddenly.
“Why? But nobody but you has ever been on her back!” cried out Davey.
“You’re there now,” said the Kid.
He whispered something in the ear of the mare and rubbed her muzzle. And
then young Davey rode the terrible fleet mare of the Kid across the road.
She slid over the fence, unexpectedly, but as smooth as running water,
and turning in the field beyond, she floated back across the fence again
and halted beside her master.
“Now you know what she’s like,” said the Kid.
“Golly,” said the boy, “now I know what heaven’s like.”
The watching population of Dry Creek had moved across the street to the
house of Billy Shay.
It was not merely an interest in the welfare of the wounded man who had
been groaning inside the place, but rather an inescapable curiosity to be
on the site of the Kid’s latest exploits. They were anxious to pick up
first-hand details with which to furnish the stories which each and all
of them would one day find an opportunity of telling to strangers.
In the Far West there is one thing which is more fabulously valuable then
gold, even. And that is a story, whether it be truth or good,
true-sounding fiction. Stories in the West are of two varieties. The
first is the openly and the humorously exaggerated. These are
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