Brand / Faust THE SILVERTIP SERIES - Complete Collection: 11 Western Classics in One Volume (Annotated)

Enriched Edition. Adventures in Outlaw Pursuits and Western Mysteries
2. improved Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-80-268-6442-4
Verlag: e-artnow
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 176 Seiten

This carefully crafted ebook: 'THE SILVERTIP SERIES - Complete Collection: 11 Western Classics in One Volume' is formatted for your eReader with a functional and detailed table of contents. In his Silvertip novels, Max Brand follows a trail of a wandering cowboy named Silvertip and his loyal stallion called Parade, as they stroll around the Old West ruining the criminal schemes of viscous bandits and fierce outlaws. In this series of novels Brand mixes western genre with the mystery making the horse a sidekick to a main character in a sort of Watson-Holmes manner. Frederick Schiller Faust (1892-1944) was an American author known primarily for his thoughtful and literary Westerns under the pen name Max Brand. Brand also created the popular fictional character of young medical intern Dr. James Kildare in a series of pulp fiction stories. Prolific in many genres he wrote historical novels, detective mysteries, pulp fiction stories and many more. His love for mythology was a constant source of inspiration for his fiction, and it has been speculated that these classical influences accounted in some part for his success as a popular writer. Many of his stories would later inspire films. Table of Contents: Silvertip The Man from Mustang Silvertip's Strike Silvertip's Roundup Silvertip's Trap Silvertip's Chase Silvertip's Search The Stolen Stallion Valley Thieves The Valley of Vanishing Men The False Rider

Autoren/Hrsg.

Brand, Max

Faust, Frederick Schiller

E-Artnow

Weitere Mitwirkende

Ashmere, Julian

Leseproben

II. THE SHOT IN THE DARK

Table of Contents

Even without the force of his reputation, Bandini would have given pause to the eye and the mind of any observer. He was one of those tall men with narrow shoulders and long fingers, who are strong as apes in spite of their slen-derness. Of the meager width of his shoulders he was very conscious, and usually wore, as he was doing now, a cloak with a wide-flaring collar. He was dressed like a Mexican cow-puncher on holiday, with a silk shirt and a colorful scarf tied about his hips. But nothing mattered, on second glance, except the face of the man. For it was built back from the chin in a series of steps, all rugged. Chin and mouth, nose, brow, receded in due order, and yet there was plenty of brain capacity in that head. It was a handsome face, in a strange way, time-battered, life-worn; and at will Bandini could be either charmingly pleasant, or savagely dangerous.

He was dangerous now. He thrust forward his head a little and blazed his eyes at Mrs. Martinelli.

“You woodenhead!” he shouted. “Where’s the pepper sauce for those frijoles? And send me a waiter with another face, because if I see the fool again, I’m going to scramble his brains on the floor!”

Suddenly he was silent. He had seen the face of Silver-tip, and the faint, small smile on it. The fingers of the right hand of Bandini made a sudden movement which could hardly be followed; it was the sign against the evil eye. The glance of Bandini lifted to the small gray tufts, like incipient horns, high above the temples of Silvertip. “Senior Silver,” said Bandini, and made an ironic bow. Then he came across the room, deliberately. It was plain that he was afraid, but a devil of the perverse in him forced him on into the danger. He stood right in front of Silvertip, and eye to eye.

“Have you come to see me, senior?” he asked. Silvertip said nothing. He kept on smiling, and looking. The moment lasted ten grim seconds. Suddenly Bandini turned white, and shouted:

“Have you come here to insult me? You know where to find me! Bandini does not run!”

“I want to talk with you,” said Silver. “Come outside into the dark for a moment, will you?”

Bandini turned yellow-white about the corners of his mouth.

“Only for talking; I want a word with you alone,” said Silver.

“Dark or light and day or night, I avoid no man,” said Bandini, and went out through the door with a swagger that brushed his cloak against both sides of it.

Silver took heed of the round eyes of fear that were fixed upon him from both sides, and he reassured them with a smile. Then he stepped behind Bandini into the darkness, and pulled the door shut behind him.

There was only starlight here, and the stars were dim lanterns by which to follow the movements of Bandini.

Silver became just a trifle more alert than a hunting cat.

“Now!” breathed Bandini. “And what do you want?”

“I want some news,” said Silver. “I want to know about the fellow who’s having dinner with you. I want to know what’s in the air.”

“Just a fool of a boy—that’s all he is,” said Bandini. after a moment. But there was that in his eyes that made Silvertip yearn to see the face. A single glint of light would have helped then, to reveal a story. “And what business is it of yours?”

“It ought to be every man’s business,” said Silvertip, “to watch you. No good ever came out of you, Bandini.”

“Do you insult me?” snarled the Mexican.

“You don’t understand me, Bandini,” said Silvertip. “I don’t insult you. A man doesn’t insult a rattlesnake; he shoots it. And that’s what will happen between us, before the wind-up.”

He heard no answer—only the heavy, irregular breathing of the Mexican. Bandini was afraid—sick with fear— and Silver knew it.

“Every man who has ever seen you at work has reasons enough to wish you dead, Bandini. That’s why I’m asking you what deviltry you’re up to with that other young Mexican, to-night?”

No matter what fear there was in Bandini, he exclaimed suddenly: “Is every man to tell you his secrets—or be murdered?”

Silver, gritting his teeth slowly together, mused on that answer before he said: “I’ve seen you deal crooked cards; I’ve seen the scar of your knife left on a man’s back; I knew some of the dead men you’ve left behind you. Now you’re at some deviltry again, and you’re not going through with it, if I can help it. I’m going to give you time to think it over. Pull yourself together and make up your mind.

“There’s no reason why we should spoil our dinners about this. But by nine thirty I’ll look for you in front of the restaurant—anywhere on the street in front of it. If you’re there, I’ll know that you want to have it out with me. If you’re not there, I’ll know that you’ve left town. But if you’re neither in the street nor out of town, I’m going to start looking for you, Bandini, and I’ll break down doors until I get at you. It was never intended that rats like you should go about the world gnawing at the lives of honest men!”

There was another moment of pause; he heard, again, the hurried breathing of the Mexican, like that of a man who has been running hard. Then Bandini turned on his heel. His cloak swished with a whispering sound through the air, and he passed back into the kitchen. As Silvertip entered in turn, the farther door banged behind Bandini, and Silver stepped into a strained moment of silence in the kitchen.

Silver turned with a sudden cheerfulness to Piero.

“If there’s a corner table in the garden, I’m going to have it, Piero.”

“Come!” said Piero Martinelli.

“No,” said Silvertip. “Quietly does the trick. I’ll find my way. I’m hungry for that spaghetti, Mrs. Martinelli.”

Then he went out toward the garden. The bustling in the kitchen began again, behind him.

“Wake up!” cried Mrs. Martinelli to the kitchen maid. “Get the pepper sauce for that Bandini devil. Fan that charcoal and bring it to life. Do something! What’s the matter with you?”

Maria looked at her with wide, dark eyes.

“You were right,” she said. “There will be a killing. And Bandini will be the dead man!”

Then she fell to her work again.

But out in the garden, there never was a more tranquil face than that of Silvertip as he passed under the high grape arbors until he found a small corner table. All the rest of the little garden was filled with family groups, Americans, flavoring their food with hearty portions of the red, home-made wine of Martinelli. No one paid any attention to Silvertip as he passed. Americans lack the public curiosity of the Latins, and only unhappiness makes them aware of the outside world. A contented party is surrounded by an unpenetrable wall of its own pleasure, as it were, and that wall is rarely peered over. So those ranchers, miners, town tradesmen and shopkeepers of Cruces, with their families about them, talked high or low, and paid no heed to Silvertip as he went by.

He, apparently, had no more eye for them, and yet he studied every face in turn, analyzed it, shaved a mustache here to see if the naked skin might bring out a dangerous likeness; put on a beard there for the same reason. By the time he had reached his corner table, he was fairly well convinced that he knew none of them, and that none of them knew him.

Still, as he sat down, he was by no means willing to relax. He measured the height of the wall behind him.

He regarded the thickness of the arbor foliage, behind which a man might easily hide.

For Bandini was near, and Bandini would kill him by courage or by craft, if possible.

Antonio Martinelli came hobbling on his crippled leg. He embraced one of Silvertip’s hands in both of his. He leaned over Silver’s table, and beamed upon him.

“How are things?” said Silvertip.

“How can anything be bad with me? How can I ever complain?” said Martinelli. “I have a leg and a half, instead of no legs at all. Therefore we all thank God and Silvertip every day of our lives. Look! Here is the wine. If it is not beautiful, every drop, you shall have the blood out of my heart.”

Silvertip made him sit down at the table. They tried the wine together, Martinelli smacking his lips.

“What’s happening in there between Bandini and his friend?” asked Silvertip.

“It’s no friend that’s with Bandini,” said Martinelli. “All I know is that Bandini wants something out of that young Mexican, and can’t get it. But there’ll be trouble! There’ll be trouble!”

“I think so, too,” said Silvertip, with a voice filled with quiet meaning. “I wish you’d watch and listen as much as you can. And let me know if a break seems to be coming on.”

“You would help? You would stop the trouble?” asked Martinelli. “You know what one gun fight does—it spoils the name of a place. It takes away the cheerfulness. If people say: ‘Martinelli’s, where the man was killed the other day’—if they say that, they will come to me no more. I’ll go and watch them like a hawk. I would give twenty dollars to have them under my eye as well as under my ear. I can only hear mumblings through the door, and very few words.”

He went off, and Maria came, bearing a plate, the grated cheese, the Bolognese sauce, and a great platter of spaghetti. She put all the dishes down, deftly, and arranged them without making a clatter,...