The Jackson Trail

Max Brand

• Publisher: Rare Treasure Editions
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781774644577
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Westerns
• Index: Literature

Jesse Jackson rode where the law feared to go... but Tex Arnold swore that he would get him!The Jackson Trail is another outstanding western that demands your attention. Packed with enough action and interesting twists to please even the most die-hard fans of the genre, Max Brand leads the reader on a very authentic tale of the Old West the way it was. Written in the thirties, but still fresh and enjoyable today.

CHAPTER XXII

Talk ebbed and flowed in a leisurely fashion along the veranda of the Sapphire Saloon. There were twenty stout chairs standing side by side along its ample length, and on a Saturday afternoon, such as this, the chairs were mostly occupied.

Only, from time to time, someone would yawn and say, “Let’s liquor,” and with grudging consent the entire line would heave slowly up and trail through the swinging doors of the barroom. There they had their drink, briefly, and came out again, blinking, gasping a little, and seeming startled as owls by the brilliance of the sunshine. Some said that the proprietor of the Sapphire knew just how to startle the oldest drinker in the world, because he put in a dash of lye to give his whisky an added potency.

After issuing onto the veranda, the entire line sank down again, and the talk began to ripple slowly from end to end of the line. As the current flowed along, most men put in a word, a comment, or a whole sentence to swell the course of the gossip.

There was only one break in the smoothly flowing tide, and that was when it reached the slender man at the farther end of the veranda. For he neither commented nor offered remarks.

This was forgiven in him. For one thing, he was reasonably young. For another, he was a stranger. For a third reason, he had half the look of a tenderfoot, although with his slender hands he manufactured cigarettes with a remarkable skill.

But he rarely spoke. He hardly seemed to listen, but gazed with rather melancholy eyes across the misty width of the valley and at the blue and brown of the mountains beyond it.

After the last exodus from the saloon to the veranda, the tide of talk began again, as usual, and flowed up and down the veranda somewhat as follows:

“Henry Clay Tucker’s got a new cook.”

It was a solemnly bearded man who pronounced this.

“I seen her at the station when she got off the train.”

“I’ve heard she’s a looker.”

“Yeah, she can look.”

“Tucker never has no she-cooks.”

“Mostly he has Chinks.”

“Well, he’s got a she-cook now. I’ve seen her.”

“At his house?”

“Yeah, hangin’ out some dish towels on the line in the back yard.”

“Was she a looker?”

“She was kind of far away to see her face. She looked made right, though.”

“What does looks matter? Looks is the bait, and time steals it.”

“Yeah. Take ’em at forty and what’s left?”

“Wrinkles and alkali dust!”

“Calico means trouble.”

“Yeah, even to Jackson!”

“Who said Jackson?”

“I said calico meant trouble even to Jackson. That’s what busted him this time.”

“He ain’t busted.”

“He’s on the trail again, though.”

“But he ain’t busted. Ask Tex Arnold if he’s busted.”

“He’ll get busted some day, and women has done it.”

“How have they done it?”

“It was a girl that started him off this time. He was all settled down.”

“I’ve heard about that. It was his wedding day.”

“And the girl, she up and slides out a window and runs away on him.”

“She took the silver with her, too.”

“Yeah, and his spare hard cash, too.”

“She left him flat.”

“He’ll have her hide for doin’ that.”

“Naw. He ain’t that kind. He’s easy with the ladies.”

“Jackson’s smart. He made a clean fool of Arnold.”

“He ain’t smart enough to fool the women. This one, she made a fool of him. He thought he was gunna marry her. Haw, haw, haw!”

The slender man at the end of the line drew hard and long upon his cigarette, but, as usual, he said nothing. He merely narrowed his gaze a little as he looked out across the valley.

“Yeah, the women can fool even Jackson.”

“And he can fool all the men.”

“They say that Tex Arnold’s been asked to resign.”

“Nope, but he’s offered to resign.”

“He oughta!”

“Don’t be a fool, son. Nobody’s much worse off because Jackson’s beat ’em. He beats everybody.”

The slender man at the end of the row of chairs crossed his knees and began to swing his foot with a light, irregular, impatient rhythm.

“They wouldn’t take the resignation of Tex Arnold.”

“They better not! He’s a good man, all right.”

“They don’t come much faster than Tex, with a gun.”

“Except Jackson.”

“Aw, leave Jackson be for a while, will you?”

“That’s what you say. You know what he last done to Arnold?”

“You mean up in the cañon?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve heard about that.”

“I was talkin’ to one of the boys that was there. He told me.”

“What did he say?”

“They had Jackson all ringed around. He didn’t have no chance. They had a solid line of bonfires. He didn’t have no chances at all.”

“What did he do then?”

“Why, he runs up with a pole and vaults over the fire.”

“Go on!”

“That’s what you say. But this other gent, he seen it.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“That’s what happened, though. And where Jackson lands is right on top of Tex Arnold. And he rolls off of Tex into the brush. That’s how he gets away.”

“Whacha think of that!”

“And Arnold’s hoss is the one that he ride off. A gray.”

“A bay hoss, you mean.”

“No, it was a gray.”

“It was a bay hoss. I heard that clear and straight.”

“What sort of looking is Jackson?”

“Smallish, I’ve heard say.”

“Biggish. Long and lean. Regular smart Westerner. Texas type.”

“That’s because he wears highish heels onto his boots. But he’s really small.”

“He lifted eight hundred and fifty pounds of cast iron junk onto a scales. That’s how small he is.”

“He done it with a trick, then.”

Said the slender man at the end of the row:

“Who is Henry Clay Tucker?”

He said it softly, to his companion, and his neighbor answered:

“Aw, he’s the father of a kid that’s just gone off and joined up with that murdering Doctor Hayman gang. He’s a rancher, out yonder, on the Dole Road.”

“Seems to me that I’ve heard of him,” said the other.

“You might of. He’s the unluckiest man in this here county.”

“Unluckiest?”

“I’ll tell a man! First he ups and loses his wife, right young. And then their daughter, she dies. And now the boy, he goes and joins the Hayman gang.”

“What for?” said the inquirer.

“Why do kids go wrong?” replied the other. “Maybe because he got tired of sitting at the table across from his pa’s sour face. Which it sure would turn sweet milk with one look, and no mistake.”

Said the man beyond, who had overheard the conversation:

“It was a gambling debt.”

“Go on!”

“It was. Young Jack Tucker, he does some gambling with Pete Borrow. And Pete takes him down the line and trims him good. He owes Pete a hundred and fifty bucks. He can only pay half of that. Then he goes home and asks his old man for the rest of the cash, and the old man won’t give it to him. So then he goes and sells himself to Hayman, and Hayman buys him in, and pays off the rest of the cash to Pete.”

“Is that how young Jack rode up Willow Lane?”

“That’s how. Jack was always wild, but he was always straight. He’ll go to hell now.”

“Sure he will. Hayman takes ’em all to hell along with himself.”

Said the man at the end of the row:

“Hayman is the fellow who robbed the Wells Fargo safe and killed the three guards, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. That’s Hayman.”

“Single handed?”

“Yeah. That’s Hayman. He’s done more’n that, single handed, when his back was against the wall. He’s sure death.”

Another who had overheard the last remarks broke in:

“There would be a man for Jackson to tackle.”

“He’d be too hard for Jackson.”

“Yeah, he’d be too hard for anybody.”

“A good pile too hard.”

The man at the end of the row stood up and stretched his supple body, delicately, carefully, as though he wished to test every muscle. He stretched as a cat stretches, limb by limb, and yet without too much gesticulation. Then he sighed and shrugged his shoulders more comfortably into his coat.

After that, he made himself a fresh cigarette, lighted it, and, crossing the veranda, went down the steps between the two watering troughs. He went down the line of the horses and paused behind a tall, finely made gray gelding.

“Look out there!” bellowed the man of the large beard. “Watch yourself when you go in there. That buckskin’ll kick the hat off your head!”

“You mean this buckskin?” said the slender stranger.

And with wonderful ignorance, he laid his hand actually upon the hip of the buckskin in question.

“That’s the one!” thundered the bearded man. “He’ll have your head off you in another second.”

The stranger smiled.

“It doesn’t seem to be his kicking day,” said he, and, pressing in carelessly between this horse and his own, he untied the lead rope, mounted, and passed off up the road.

A little silence spread along the veranda.

“Now, who’s he?” asked the bearded man, muttering.

Heads were shaken, and someone muttered, heard by all in the silence:

“Well, he’s somebody!”

CHAPTER XXIII

When Jackson was free of the village, he put the gray into a long, raking canter and did not draw up until he approached a nest of poplar trees at a culvert. There he drew rein and whistled.

Red-headed Pete immediately stepped into view and blinked at the rider.

“How are the boys?” asked Jackson.

“Sleepin’,” said Pete. “They’re done in. I’d be sleepin’, too, except that my nerves have got the jumps. I’d like to have about a quart of red-eye to quiet me down!”

“Boy,” said Jackson, “you’re going to have enough jack to buy a whole tank full of red-eye, before you’re through with this. Have you got everything else that you want?”

“Ay,” said Pete, “except a free trail!”

“You want the world with a fence around it,” said Jackson. “What’s the matter with you, Pete? If there’s a marshal and a posse looking for the three of you—and me—it’s all the more reason why we should enjoy our riding. That’s the salt in the egg, Pete. You can’t eat eggs without salt, can you?”

Pete grinned dubiously back at his employer.

“All right,” he said. “I know you, Jackson. At least, I know the title page and how the first chapter begins of you. I guess nobody else knows much more. What’s the news?”

“I think that I’ve located the girl again,” said Jackson.

“Hey! Near here?”

“Yes. At a place owned by a fellow named Tucker. Out yonder on the Dole Road. I may be wrong. I’m taking a long step. But I have an idea that I’m right.”

“You mostly are,” said Pete. “I never thought that you’d pick her up again this quick. But if she’s there, maybe the marshal is there, too.”

“No, not as soon as this,” said Jackson, with conviction. “Not unless she’s told him where she went.”

“Do we ride that way with you?”

“Wait till the boys have had their sleep out,” said Jackson. “Then you trail along up the road. Cut over yonder off the main trail. I can see cowpaths through those hills. Ride over yonder, and I’ll try to pick you up before dark.”

Pete scratched his head.

“Listen, chief,” said he. “Mostly you’re right. But whacha gain by trailin’ around after a girl that’s turned you down? Ain’t it better sense for you to take the three of us and turn us onto a job where there’s real money to play for?”

Jackson listened in patience. Then he said:

“Let me work my own trail, Pete. Do what I’ve told you. Do you want higher pay?”

“Me?” said Pete. “Higher pay for just settin’ around with nothing to do but to dodge a few slugs of lead, a couple of times a day? Why, Jackson, we’ve hardly got enough to do to keep us warm. All we’ve got to do, mostly, is to keep from bein’ turned cold forever.”

Jackson smiled.

“Do what I said,” he suggested. “Remember, Pete, that there’s a bonus for you, all three, when I finish with you, and a bonus that will make your head swim.”

He left Pete with these instructions and sent the gray at the same long canter sweeping up the road. Where it branched, he turned onto the long, meandering stretch of rutted, hoof-beaten gray which had been pointed out to him as the Dole Road. And so he came to the ranch house of Henry Clay Tucker.

It was not an ordinary ranch house. It was inhabited by people who had not deliberately cut down all of the trees around the place for the sake of getting easier firewood. Instead, the trees had bee...