SILVER whistled. At once there was a light trampling beyond the trees. It came closer. Out of the brush stepped a horse that gleamed like copper wherever the firelight touched its body. Only a stallion could have such a head and neck, and a stallion is about as tractable as a panther. But this monster went straight up to Silver and stood obviously at attention. Yet Tom Derry could see clearly that the big horse wore not a bridle and bit, but simply a light halter with a pair of reins attached to it!
Then he realized that that must be the Parade of whom he had heard men speak. The grey wolf, at the appearance of the horse, showed every sign of hate and rage. It crouched in front of its master and bared its teeth and snarled in a consummate fury. But Parade lowered his head and sniffed at Frosty with pricking ears and a fearless curiosity.
“Frosty is going to tear his throat wide open for him, one of these days,” declared that gloomy prophet, Taxi. “He hates Parade. You ought to see that, Jim.”
“Frosty won’t touch him. Not as long as I’m alive,” said Silver.
He sat down on a rock by the fire and took off his sombrero. The reddish light showed to Derry a brown, handsome, rather weary face. He could not guess at the exact age, for as Silver turned, his expression altered. Sometimes he seemed not more than twenty-five. Again, he looked ten years older.
Above his temples, Derry could see the two tufts of grey hair, like incipient horns. They gave a hint of something devilish, like an uncanny image out of a fable.
“You think,” went on Taxi, who was plainly in a state of high irritation, “that there’s nothing in the way of danger for Parade from Frosty — while you live? You think you can control the teeth of Frosty even when your back is turned?”
“I think that what I’ve handled has my scent on it. He won’t touch that scent with his teeth. Is that so strange?”
“Have it your way, then,” muttered Taxi. “You always do! But now tell me what we’re to do about this Christian. He’s back there, by this time — back there with his Duff Gregor and his Buck Rainey and the rest of his cut-throats and sneaks and blood-suckers.”
It was too much for Tom Derry. He exclaimed:
“That’s a lie, Taxi, and you know it. Buck Rainey is the straightest man in the world.”
“Lie?” snapped Taxi, spinning around.
Then he seemed to realize that the hands of the prisoner were tied.
“You mean that Buck Rainey’s not a yegg and a thief and a confidence man?” asked Taxi calmly.
“He’s not!” said Derry, “and the man who says he is, is a hound!”
“Jim,” murmured Taxi, “I’m going to turn this fellow loose, and we’ll have it out together.
“Just a moment,” interrupted Silver. “What makes you so sure that Rainey’s an honest man, Derry?”
“I owe my life to him, twice over,” answered Derry. “Besides, I’d swear by him and die for him. A whiter man was never born!”
“Are you swallowing that, Jim?” asked Taxi, aside.
“I’m thinking it over,” replied Silver. “How long have you known Rainey?”
“Only a few days, but every day has had years packed into it.”
“He talks like a fool as well as a crook,” said Taxi, and Derry could see the pale brightness of the eyes with which Taxi regarded him.
“Will you tell me how Buck Rainey saved your life?” asked Silver. Again Tom Derry marvelled, not at the words, but at the gentleness and the courtesy of the voice.
“I’ll tell you,” said Derry. “Once, when I was hanging head down on a barbed-wire fence and a bull was coming at me as fast as she could spread himself. An another time a gang was after me, and Rainey, instead of riding away — he was on a fast horse — turned back and opened up on that crew with his gun, and gave me my chance to get clear away. They put some lead in him to pay him for it. And now you want me to stand here and let you call him a crook?”
Indignation made his voice ring.
“Taxi,” said Silver, “turn him loose.”
“Turn him — you mean, to set him free?” cried Taxi.
“Yes,” said Silver.
“Set him free so that I can have it out with him?” pleaded Taxi.
“What chance would he have against you?” asked Silver, rather sternly. “No, but give him his horse and let him go.”
“Are you out of your head?” demanded Taxi. “He’s a fighting man, I tell you. It’s he that set Christian free. He’s the one who gave — ”
“Never mind,” said Silver. “I’m working a little in the dark, I admit, but I know that in the long run no honest man can be of any use to Christian.”
“You call this one honest?” demanded Taxi.
Silver nodded as he answered: “He’s honest. He’s honest enough to do a lot of harm to Christian before the game is ended. So turn him loose.”
Taxi, cursing under his breath, obeyed. Tom Derry swung his free hands forward and looked down at them in amazement.
“There’s your horse,” remarked Silver. “Take him and go where you please.”
Tom Derry saddled the black horse of Barry Christian, and his hands moved as in a trance, without wit or sense in them. His brain was a blank. At last, standing at the head of his horse, he looked across at Silver and saw the big man stripping away the saddle from Parade, taking even the halter off, to let the monster run free. It seemed to Derry that a man who could trust a dumb beast to this extent could be trusted by other men. And he could not help breaking out:
“Silver, I know from Buck Rainey what you are. But no matter what comes of it, I want you to try to count on me after this!”
“Ay,” said Taxi bitterly, “count you among Christian’s guns!”
But Silver called cheerfully: “Thanks, Derry. Good luck.”
That was all. And then Derry rode from the trees, and was surprised to find the white of moonlight silvering the ground of the hillside. His brain had been too filled, during the last moments, to permit him to look far above the ground.
As he rode down toward the town of Little Rock, he saw another horseman coming up toward him. He came closer, and Derry saw that it was a very big fellow with a hump of strength across his shoulders. He had a surprisingly small mustang under him. Next of all, Derry marked a white rag that fluttered on the bridle rein of the stranger.
He rode straight to the big fellow, and when he came close, he exclaimed with a shock of terror and a wild relief:
“Stan Parker!”
“Sure,” said the rider. “Sure, sure! Did I throw a shock into you, kid? You thought you’d done me in, down there in Cleve’s saloon, didn’t you? Well, you knocked the wind right out of me, and I still got a plaster across my ribs. But that ain’t nothin’. I come along here to fetch you. Buck Rainey sent me. How’s things?”
“Turn your horse around and tin-can out of here as fast as you can,” urged Tom Derry, “because there’s worse trouble up there in the trees than you think about.”
“What kind of trouble?” asked Stan Parker.
“Jim Silver and Taxi,” said Derry.
He expected to make an effect, but he did not expect to see Stan Parker doubled up by the news, then spread out along the back of the mustang, which he was spurring with might and main, looking back as though the air were already full of bullets. Derry shook his head, and followed him at a rapid gallop.