The Quest: A Western Trio (Paradise Al; Paradise Al's Confession; The Quest)

239 Pages·2013·1.12 MB·English

by  Brand Max

Copyright © 2009 by Golden West Literary Agency First Skyhorse Publishing
edition published 2014 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency The
name Max Brand® is a registered trademark with the United States Patent and
Trademark Office and cannot be used for any purpose without express written
permission.
“Paradise Al” by David Manning first appeared in Street & Smith’s Western
Story Magazine (6/4/32). Copyright © 1932 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.
Copyright © renewed 1959 by Dorothy Faust. Copyright © 2009 by Golden
West Literary Agency for restored material. Acknowledgement is made to
Condé Nast Publications, Inc., for their co-operation. “Paradise Al’s Confession”
by David Manning first appeared in Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine
(7/23/32). Copyright © 1932 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright ©
renewed 1959 by Dorothy Faust. Copyright © 2009 by Golden West Literary
Agency for restored material. Acknowledgement is made to Condé Nast
Publications, Inc., for their co-operation.
“The Quest” by Max Brand first appeared in West Magazine (5/33). Copyright
© 1933 by Doubleday, Doran & Co. Copyright © renewed 1960 by Dorothy
Faust. Copyright © 2009 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material.
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eISBN: 978-1-62873-896-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-62636-210-9
Printed in the United States of America
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Paradise Al
Paradise Al’s Confession
The Quest
About the Author
T
Paradise Al he year 1932 saw the
publication of twenty-three short
novels and fourteen serials by
Frederick Faust. All but two of these
appeared in Street & Smith’s Western
Story Magazine, Faust’s primary
market beginning in 1921 and lasting
through the mid-’Thirties. “Paradise
Al”, the first of a duo of stories,
appeared in the June 4th issue under
the David Manning byline. In it Faust
deftly wove a number of plot elements
including a long-standing feud
between two families, an unbroken
wild horse, and an Eastern criminal
on the lam who takes on a false
identity.
I
T
he first pinch of autumn was in the air that morning, and the cold filled the
blue mist that lay in the hollows around Jumping Creek; all the lower
flanks of the mountains were dimmed by the same exhalations, although their
tops gloried in the clear upper air, far above timberline.
Paradise Al, looking out from the blind baggage of the passenger train as it
stormed up the grade toward the wide railroad yards of Jumping Creek, noted all
of these features, and he saw, furthermore, how the leaves of the bushes along
the hills were stained with yellows and reds and purples, some of them already
brown and crisp. The wind, as he leaned out, cut sharply against his thin,
handsome face and threatened to freeze his fingers to the handrail that he so
firmly gripped. However, he was not perturbed by this. Legs were what counted,
in the maneuver that was to follow, so he squatted half a dozen times and rose
again quickly in order to make sure that his running muscles were in perfect
trim. Then he slipped down the steps, clinging with both hands, his feet resting
on the lowest step, and his body bent far outward in a bow, and finally let go
with his right hand so that his body swung rapidly out. Just as he faced into the
wind of the train’s passage, he dropped clear. His feet began to run in the empty
air, swiftly, and, as he struck the grade beside the track, which seemed to be
shooting backward with hurricane speed, he was sprinting with all his might.
Even so, the forward impetus threatened to hurl him on his face. When he
forced back his head and shoulders with an effort, the added weight made his
knees sag, and he staggered a bit from side to side, but by the time the last car of
the train had shot by, leaving a whirl of dust to curl about him, Paradise Al was
in control of the situation.
He dropped to a jog, and then to a walk. After that, he paused and dusted
himself with care, took off his coat, shook it out, examined it with a minute
inspection in the search for grease stains and, finding none, smiled with pleasure.
He was half into his coat again when two men stepped out from behind a
pile of ties; one of them had empty hands, but the other carried a Colt revolver of
a formidable length.
“I told you, Jay,” said the man with the gun, “that the tramp royals and all
the fast boys climb off down the track a way . . . but I didn’t know that they got
off clear down here. You don’t need to get all the way into that coat, brother.”
The last was addressed to Paradise Al, and the latter made no further effort
to get into the coat, the sleeves of it manacling him perfectly.
“Fan him, Jay,” said the man of the gun.
Jay, accordingly, went through the pockets of the tramp. The latter said:
“This is an outrage. If you men pretend to represent law and order in this town . .
. ”
“Oh, can that,” said he of the gun. “Shut up and be reasonable. You’re
Paradise Alley, ain’t you?”
“Al,” corrected Jay. “Paradise Al is the moniker he wears. Always in
Paradise because he never does no work. This is all that he’s got on him.” He
straightened from turning the last pocket inside out. In his hands he held a
wallet, a small clasp knife, a pencil, and two handkerchiefs, together with a
small, well-worn notebook.
“Is that all?” asked the man with the gun.
“That’s all, Tucker,” said his assistant.
The railroad detective took the plunder into his hands. “There’s four hundred
and eighty-two bucks here. How you come by that much money, Paradise?” he
asked.
“Me? Work, brother,” said Paradise Al. “That’s the way to make money.
Speculation lets you down in the long run. Work is what pays. Hard, hard
work!”
Harry Tucker looked down at the slender hands of the other. “What sort of
work have you ever done, Paradise?” he asked.
“Lots and lots of different kinds of jobs,” said Paradise Al. “I’ve spieled in a
circus for the sideshows, and I’ve dealt cards many a month, partner.”
“General all-around bum and crooked gambler, eh?” asked Tucker, but
without heat.
“Never crooked when the rest of the boys want to go straight.” declared the
tramp. “Never, never. Now, with you and your friend, here, I could play seven-
up or poker all day long, and there’d be nothing but luck and the fall of the cards
to make one of us lose.”
“Maybe,” answered Tucker. “But we’re not sitting down with you to a little
game of cards just yet. We’re standing here for a little talk. Understand?”
“So it appears,” said Paradise Al.
“And we’re talking turkey, eh?”
“Glad to do that,” said the tramp.
“Where did you get all this coin? Come across, now.”
“Dealing. And taking a slice out of the races, now and then.”
“Where?”
“Denver.”
“Working for whom?”
“Tiger Mullins.”
“I know Tiger.”
“He’s worth knowing.”
“Why’d you leave Denver?”
“I wanted a change.”
“Why’d you leave Denver?”
“I was tired of the town. Denver’s too far east for me, Tucker.”
“All right. Let that go. While you were in Denver, how many times did you
see Stuffy Miller?”
“Who?” asked Paradise Al.
“Stuffy Miller.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
“Come on, kid. Stuffy Miller? You don’t know him?”
“Oh, Stuff! You mean Stuff, do you?”
“Who else would I mean?”
“There’s a lot of Stuffys in the world, but there’s only one Stuff. We always
called him Stuff, not Stuffy.”
“Quit playing for time. How many times did you see Miller?”
“Oh, just now and then.”
“Where?”
“He came into Mullins’s joint, now and then. I used to see him other places,
too.”
“What was he doing the last time you saw him?”
“Saying good bye.”
“Good bye?”
“Yes.”
“Where was he going?”
“New Orleans.”
“That’s a lie,” said Jay Winchell.
“How come?” asked Tucker of his companion.
“Stuff Miller never told nobody where he was going. That was never his
way.”
“I knew the fellow was lying all right. I just wanted to lead him on a while,”
said Harry Tucker. “If he says that Stuffy was going to New Orleans, it probably
means that Miller is up in Butte, or some place up there, by this time.” Then he
shook his fist under the chin of the young man. “Are you gonna shake it up and
talk?” he asked.
“I’ve been talking,” said the tramp, his brown eyes calmly meeting the glare
of the detective.
“You’ve been talking, have you? Well, now you start in and talk on the other
side of your face, will you?” demanded Harry Tucker. Suddenly drawing back
his fist, he jerked it against the chin of the young man. Or, rather, it seemed that
was where he drove home the punch. But the detective’s arm shot over the
shoulder of the tramp, who had moved his head just enough to one side.
“That was neat,” said Jay Winchell. “The fellow can handle himself, I
guess.”
“He’s gonna need to handle himself better than that, if he don’t loosen up
and talk a little,” declared Tucker. “Now, damn you, I won’t miss you the second
shot. Will you talk?”
“I’ve been talking,” said the tramp. “Stuff Miller was barging away for New
Orleans. That’s the fact. He was flush, and he was barging for New Orleans . . .