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    The Lightning Runner: A Western Story
    The Lightning Runner: A Western Story
    The Lightning Runner: A Western Story
    Ebook283 pages5 hours

    The Lightning Runner: A Western Story

    By Max Brand

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    Notorious outlaw Lawrence Grey has been captured near El Paso. Marshal Neilan has a proposal for him. Neilan will set Grey free if he tries to locate John Ray, a man who was last known to be living in San Vicente, Mexico. The men Neilan sent previously have disappeared or quit the job. Brick Forbes of Pittsburgh is worth millions. Ray once did him a kindness. Now that Forbes is desperately ill, he wants to leave his fortune to Ray rather than to his own relatives.   

    Grey agrees to Neilan’s proposal and goes to San Vicente, where he promptly saves the life of Mexican general Miguel O’Riley during a bombing attempt. The general makes inquiries and learns that the stranger who saved his life is called John Lawrence and that he is studying Spanish. Another American named Dickson Jarvis, employed by Forbes’s relatives, informs O’Riley that Lawrence is actually a wanted outlaw on both sides of the border. Later, Jarvis is murdered. Lawrence has his own audience with General O’Riley and asks him for a guide into the mountains. O’Riley sends for Oliver Slade, a man who strangely resembles the one who killed Jarvis. This proves only the beginning of an intrigue in which Lawrence’s life is threatened continually from all sides.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSkyhorse
    Release dateApr 1, 2013
    ISBN9781510720343
    The Lightning Runner: A Western Story
    Author

    Max Brand

    Max Brand® (1892–1944) is the best-known pen name of widely acclaimed author Frederick Faust, creator of Destry, Dr. Kildare, and other beloved fictional characters. Orphaned at an early age, he studied at the University of California, Berkeley. He became one of the most prolific writers of our time but abandoned writing at age fifty-one to become a war correspondent in World War II, where he was killed while serving in Italy.

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      Book preview

      The Lightning Runner - Max Brand

      Chapter One

      Marshal Neilan had slept eight hours a night for two weeks. He had eaten three square meals, and had a full hour’s siesta after each lunch, and yet the marshal was tired. He looked tired, and he was tired. He had a battered face and he had a battered soul. He was mortally weary, and his weariness came from walking constantly in danger of his life.

      They were all out for the marshal. The drug-runners and the smugglers of Chinese across the border, the yeggs and thugs of the river towns, the horse thieves and the cattle rustlers, and all those clever internationalists who occasionally drifted in the direction of El Paso and points east and west of that cheerful city, all of these and many odd items had it in for the marshal. He was tireless, he was unforgetting, he was unforgiving, and he was incorruptible.

      Men said that Steve Malley, the great smuggler, once laid a stack of a thousand $100 bills on the marshal’s desk and got it back the next day. After that, they gave up trying to bribe him. But everyone wondered why he kept on at the job. Certainly it was not the money involved. His salary was beggarly small; if he wanted to turn back to his law office, he could make ten times as much with the greatest ease. Neither did he enjoy great fame; he was rarely in the papers.

      In fact, what kept the marshal at his post was an odd thing, a sense of duty so pure and noble that his labors rewarded themselves. Still, he could be tired, and he was especially weary this morning, as he wrote on a slip of paper:

      Dear Bill, will you send Lawrence Grey over to my office?

      He dispatched this note by his office boy. Then he turned and looked out across the roofs and listened to the murmur and the rumblings of the city, until the sound took on another character and seemed to him like the drumming sound of bees in the sunshine and the still, ominous purring of the mosquitoes in the river flats. He looked at the yellow sands of the desert beyond the town and the rock faces of the hills that made his horizon. That was where he wanted to be—anywhere out there, in the open. But his work was too great and spread over too wide a field. Electricity had to carry his thoughts, and this was the center of power. He had to sit here in the center and send out emissaries to spin the farther margins of his web.

      He was in the midst of these melancholy thoughts when his office boy returned and opened the door for an excited man who came with him, Deputy Sheriff Sam Tucker, late of Tucson and other points west where trouble was in the air.

      Sam Tucker said: ’Lo, Marshal Neilan. Look it here, Marshal, is it a joke?

      The marshal, by painful degrees, dragged his thoughts back from the great open places and turned his tired, battered face toward the other. Is what a joke, Sam? he said.

      You wrote a note. You sent it over, and you say that you wanna see Rinky Dink. Is that right, or is it a joke?

      It’s not a joke, said the marshal. How many people know that you’ve got young Lawrence Grey?

      Sam Tucker looked uneasily over his shoulder toward the door. He looked toward the ceiling, and he looked toward the floor, also. It seemed that he suspected everything around. Then he stepped closer and laid a brown hand on the edge of the marshal’s desk. Not a living soul, he whispered, and thank God for it. Nobody knows, and nobody’s gonna know till we have to let it out. That’ll be the time. The fool newspapers, they’ll blow the word around. They’ll be shoutin’ out loud, and his friends will hear. It’ll be harder and worse to hold him then, than it is to hold freezin’ nitroglycerin.

      How did you get Grey? asked the marshal curiously.

      Didn’t the chief tell you?

      No. I haven’t heard. You fellows have been very close-mouthed.

      Smythe and Ridgeby and Allen and Fulton and Meggs, they went out. They all went out to make the plant, said the deputy sheriff.

      About the five best men you have, suggested the marshal.

      Not about … they are the best, said Sam Tucker. "They’re clean and away the best. Who else would we be sending for Don Diablo?"

      I suppose so, said the marshal. And what happened?

      Well, they got a good start. The greasers had framed him, said Sam Tucker. They took most of the punching, too.

      How bad was it? said the marshal.

      "A couple of Mexicans will never eat frijoles any more, said Sam Tucker carelessly. Meggs is in a pretty bad way, but they say he’ll pull through. Smythe and Allen, they’re laid up, but they’ll be reporting back for duty in about a month, I guess. The whole bunch was lucky, any way you take it."

      The marshal half closed his eyes and seemed to be dreaming. Yes, he said, they were a lucky lot.

      About that note, now, said Sam Tucker with a forced laugh. The chief, he just wanted me to drop over and find out what the joke was.

      There’s no joke, said the marshal. I want to see him. I want to see him here.

      The jaw of the deputy sheriff dropped. You don’t mind if I ask again, sir, he said. "It’s Rinky Dink that you mean, all right? It’s Don Diablo, is it?"

      Yes, said the marshal. It’s Lawrence Grey. Tell your chief that I have to have him here, and your chief along with him, if that’s possible.

      Sam Tucker left. He slid through the door with an alarmed glance behind him, as though he were departing by the skin of his teeth from the presence of a madman.

      And the marshal turned back in his chair and continued to stare out the window, blankly, sadly for nearly an hour.

      In the meantime, there were many calls on his telephone and many taps at his door. But he refused every one. He was saving himself. He was too tired a man for more than one interview such as he intended to have that morning.

      Eventually they came.

      First, two guards came through the doorway. Each wore revolvers; each carried a sawed-off shotgun. They entered, stepped half a pace to either side of the door and faced inward, holding their shotguns at the ready. Behind them appeared the sheriff, who came in, nodded briefly at the marshal, and, taking up his position in the center of the room, faced the door in his turn. He allowed no weapons to be visible, but the bulges under his coat were not made by packages of candy.

      When these preparations had been made, two more men appeared, assisting between them, as it seemed, a third, whose wrists were held together by heavy irons connecting through a powerful double chain with other manacles that fitted over the ankles. He was bundled through the doorway. The door was then closed, and the key turned in the lock.

      Well, Neilan, said the sheriff, here he is. I’ve known you close onto twenty years, Neilan … and so I’ve brought him when you called. He was panting. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. But the movement was furtive, and his eyes never left the face of the prisoner.

      And the guards looked only at the man in chains, and so did the marshal. Yet Lawrence Grey was no abysmal brute in face or body. He was a slenderly made youth who might have been twenty-one when he smiled and twenty-five when he was serious. But generally he was smiling. He had one of those pink-and-white complexions that refuse to be tanned by the fiercest sun; it merely becomes pinker—and whiter. His blond hair, to be sure, seemed rather sun-faded at the outer margin.

      When they got Lawrence Grey, he was dressed in neat flannels, a white shirt with a soft collar and black tie of silk tied in a big flowing knot, such as Bohemians and artists are so fond of affecting. He wore a jaunty slouch hat, with the brim turned up on one side. In general his appearance was that of a pleasant, casual young man. Now, his appearance was altogether different—there was no coat, no slouch hat, no black tie.

      Thank you for bringing him, said the marshal. You might introduce me to him, though.

      "As if this hombre didn’t know you, growled the sheriff. But you tell him, Rinky Dink. You tell him if you know him."

      Of course, I know Marshal Neilan, said Lawrence Grey. And he smiled at the marshal, as if to say he was honored to meet him, and that he was also, perhaps, honoring the marshal just a little. In fact, he seemed a modest young man, and yet he gave a second impression of being rather sure of himself, in a quiet way. Young Englishmen often give the same effect.

      And I know you, Grey, said the marshal, although this is the first time I’ve seen you. One hears about one another.

      Yes, said Grey, with another of his charming smiles. One does.

      Listen to him talk, said the sheriff, half grinning and half snarling. Sweet, ain’t he? Butter’d melt in his mouth, all right.

      You don’t need to point him out, said the marshal. Now that you’ve brought him here, I want to ask another favor of you, old fellow.

      Go on, said the sheriff. You know the sky is the limit, between you and me … only don’t spring another like this one.

      I want you to send your strong boys back home, and I want you to go and sit in the outer office, yonder, and leave Grey in here alone with me.

      The sheriff started to speak, and then stared. But he stared at the prisoner, not at the marshal. He still looked at Grey as he answered: Leave you alone with Rinky Dink? You’re crazy, Neilan. You know that you’re crazy to ask that.

      I’m asking just that, said the marshal. He’s loaded down with iron, and I’m well-armed, you know.

      The sheriff shook his head, as a man does when he cannot offer a logical objection, although he feels resistant still. I don’t like it. Fact is, he said, I hate the idea of it.

      I want to be alone with him, said the marshal quietly.

      At last the sheriff looked at him. You’re never wrong, old son, he said at last. And I hope that you’re right now. I’ll be sitting out there on springs. Make it as short as you can.

      Chapter Two

      The Sheriff and the rest of his men had withdrawn from the office, with the exception of the second of the two bearers of the riot guns, and this worthy fellow, with a sour look at young Lawrence Grey and a wondering one at the marshal, now blurted out: I don’t wanna be botherin’ you, sir, but suppose that I was just to stand here in a handy corner with this here gun … it might be tolerable useful.

      The marshal nodded seriously at him. Thank you, Jerry, he said. It’s fellows like you that make life easier for us. But I’ll have to trust myself alone with our young friend.

      So the guard went out, shaking his head and closing the door slowly behind him, with a long, long look of doubt cast toward Lawrence Grey.

      When he was gone and the door at last closed, Neilan pointed to a chair. Sit down, Grey, he said. Make yourself at home while I open the window.

      He spent only a moment, loosening the catch that held the window down and then lifting it with some effort, for it was a trifle wedged at either side. When he turned around from this work, he found that Rinky Dink was sitting with the shackles and the double chain piled neatly beside his chair, his knees crossed, and his hands locked lightly across one of them.

      The marshal, looking at him without surprise, dusted his hands, for the under edge of the window had not been quite clean. After that, he merely said: Don’t you want to smoke, Rinky Dink?

      I’d like one, said the boy gratefully. They’re rather careless about the details over there in the jail.

      Here’s some tobacco and wheat-straw papers, said the marshal, taking them from a pocket. But, hold on. You have a fancy for Turkish blends, I think. He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a package. Here’s a sample parcel of Turkish stuff sent over the border for the hands of a small, select American manufacturer. But it got to the wrong address, Rinky Dink, the way things will. Want to try it?

      Of course, said Grey. He made his cigarette with the leisurely speed of one whose fingers need no watching; they guided themselves and solved their own problems.

      The marshal, however, made his own cigarette of an American blend. He lighted both smokes from one match, and afterward tossed it onto the pile of steel shackles and tool-proof chain. That was rather a fast bit of work, wasn’t it, Rinky Dink? he asked.

      Lawrence Grey tilted a little in his chair and regarded the gleaming heap. The locks are rather old-fashioned, he said. No, that wasn’t a very fast job.

      A very neat one, though, said the marshal. And I heard nothing. You must have wrapped the links with flannel.

      More or less. Rinky Dink nodded. I just held the chain between my legs.

      So there’s no mystery at all, remarked Neilan, going back to the chair behind his desk.

      Oh, none at all, said the boy. This is grand tobacco, he added. Someday I want to get over to the section of the world where they grow this stuff.

      Well, you’ll get there one day, answered Neilan.

      Not if the sheriff has his way, said Grey.

      The marshal smiled, very faintly, and his battered face seemed suddenly younger. Why did you let them keep you a whole day? he asked.

      Why? Oh, the jail has very strong bars. Tool-proof, and all that, answered the youngster.

      But it has to depend on locks, remarked Neilan.

      Very complicated new ones, said Grey.

      The marshal shrugged his shoulders, apparently not convinced in the least. I suppose that you wanted a rest, he suggested.

      Don’t underrate the sheriff, warned Grey. He’s a formidable fellow. Every honest man is dangerous to people like me, you know. And he opened his eyes and nodded. He looked like a child, for the moment.

      I don’t underrate the sheriff, said Neilan. "But something tells me that you’re not likely to end your career in this town. It will have to be in a much bigger place than this, Rinky Dink. By the way, who gave you that new name the sheriff is so fond of using? Who called you Don Diablo?"

      The boy sighed. You know how it is, he said confidingly. If someone has a bit of bad luck, let’s say, and takes quite a fall, he’s apt to call the other fellow the devil. It was only that.

      Well, Grey, said the marshal, "or Rinky Dink, or Don Diablo … I’m glad to have you here under any or all of those names. I’ve been waiting for years to see you face to face."

      Thank you, said the boy. You’ll understand if I cannot say that I’ve been hoping for the same thing?

      The marshal chuckled. Now I’ll tell you why I’ve sent for you, Rinky, he said. I have on hand just the job for you … the very thing that’s made to order for you.

      A shadow came over the eyes of Grey, a mere suggestion of disappointment and disgust. Well? he said slowly.

      But the marshal had read the meaning of that passing shadow and he said: It’s not a graft, Rinky. It’s not likely that you could make much money out of it. It’s merely a good chance for you to go and break your young neck.

      Lawrence Grey regarded him earnestly. He drew in a breath of smoke; he touched his throat with femininely sensitive fingers. Yes? he said.

      Here’s the rest of that tobacco, replied Neilan. You smoke away at that while I talk. I begin by reading you a letter that I got four years ago … it runs like this. He spread a paper on the desk and read:

      Dear Marshal Neilan: You may remember me from the old Brownsville days. The boys called me Brick then. It may help you to identify me if you recall the fellow who was accused of stealing Jay Saunders’s bay gelding. I was the Brick Forbes of that episode.

      Yes, I stepped a little too high and touched the ground not often enough in those days. Since then I’ve turned respectable. And I want to tell you the cause of it.

      I was down in old Mexico at San Vicente. It was running high, wide, and handsome in those days. I understand that it still is. I had washed out some gold in the hills behind the town, and I came down to San Vicente to have a bust.

      I had it, all right. Before I finished, I’d spent my money and got into a fight. Two greasers had me cornered and they were about to let the light into me when a fellow came by and slammed one of them over the head with the barrel of his six-gun, and kicked the second one into the street.

      This stranger who rescued me was around middle age and about five feet nine or ten in height. The peculiar point in his appearance was a divided beard. It split in the center, parted outward, and ended in two points. He had dark eyes. His beard was gray. That’s all the description I can give him, except that he was well-dressed.

      He took me by the shoulders and brought me out into the light. He said: I’ve been watching you. You’ve played the fool, but you’re not as much of a fool as you pretend to be. This nonsense doesn’t amuse you. Go home and be a good boy. This will take you back to the States.

      He dropped a whole wallet into my pocket, and afterward I counted a shade over $1,000 in it. I sat down with that money and had a think. I saw that the stranger was right. I had been chasing a good time all over the West, but I never had found it. I had blown my pay every month, but I always cursed myself on Monday morning. I was sick of the life, and I hadn’t known it. I had been at the door of the jail twenty times, and all for nothing. So I decided to pull out.

      First, I asked for the name of my benefactor, and I was told that he was called John Ray. He was a high-stepper and a great spender, and everybody’s friend in San Vicente. I tried to see him and thank him and tell him that I was going to follow his good advice, but he was out of town.

      So I packed up and left San Vicente and went back to Pennsylvania. I had been raised in the country there, and I went right back to the old ground and sank the rest of my $1,000, after railroad fare was subtracted, to buy some land at less than $20 an acre. I got about fifty acres for what I thought a bargain, but I found out that it was the worst ground in the world. It was covered with outcropping soft black stone, and about one sheep to three acres was enough to keep the grass cropped short.

      I couldn’t live on that fool place. I went to work in the town as a carpenter and kept at that for nearly five years. Then, all at once, along came a fellow with a pink face and a foxy eye and wanted to buy my land. He offered me my original price. But I held on for more. He came up with $1,000, and finally I bucked him up to $3,000 cash. When I had that offer from him, I simply told him to go to the devil. The land wasn’t worth that much on the face of it and it never would be. I decided that I would find out what was under the face of it.

      Well, when I learned that that fellow was a coal miner, it gave me my lead. You won’t believe it—the outcropping on that wretched ground was coal. I’d bought fifty acres of as good anthracite as a body could find in the world! And that was in Pennsylvania, where even the worst old fools and the smallest kids know all about coal. But I had spent five years cursing my black rocks.

      That made me rich. I didn’t have to use any intelligence. I simply sat by and let a company work the mine and took a big fat percentage for myself. I got so much money that I could afford to sit back and just pick up the good things that offered themselves, here and there. So I’ve stacked money on top of money for ten years and lived the softest sort of a life. I have somewhere between five and six millions today.

      Now comes the rub. I got a dizzy spell one day. Indigestion, I said.

      Hardening of the arteries, said the doctor.

      What does that mean? I asked.

      Make your will. I’ll explain later, he said.

      I go to make my will, and there’s another rub. I’ve been raising money, not a family. I have no wife or children. The nearest relations are a batch of second cousins, as hard as steel and as small as conies. The tightest, meanest lot of people I ever knew. If I pass out tomorrow, they get my whole fortune and split it into fifty parcels—just enough to make them all mean and self-satisfied the rest of their days.

      Then I look at the charities. But what do I care about charities? What did charities ever do for me? No, I want to give my cash to a human being. But, mind you, all I’ve made in the past fifteen years have been business acquaintances. You can’t call them friends.

      Now I come to the point where I appeal to you. I think back to the old Western days. Those were the times when I found people that I loved around me. But they were a harum-scarum lot. Pretty worthless, a lot of them were, as worthless as I was

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