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Title: The Man on the Ground
Author: Robert E. Howard
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0801231.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: October 2008
Date most recently updated: October 2008

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Title: The Man on the Ground
Author: Robert E. Howard




Cal Reynolds shifted his tobacco quid to the other side of his mouth
as he squinted down the dull blue barrel of his Winchester. His jaws
worked methodically, their movement ceasing as he found his bead. He
froze into rigid immobility; then his finger hooked on the trigger.
The crack of the shot sent the echoes rattling among the hills, and
like a louder echo came an answering shot. Reynolds flinched down,
flattening his rangy body against the earth, swearing softly. A gray
flake jumped from one of the rocks near his head, the ricocheting
bullet whining off into space. Reynolds involuntarily shivered. The
sound was as deadly as the singing of an unseen rattler.

He raised himself gingerly high enough to peer out between the rocks
in front of him. Separated from his refuge by a broad level grown with
mesquite-grass and prickly-pear, rose a tangle of boulders similar to
that behind which he crouched. From among these boulders floated a
thin wisp of whitish smoke. Reynold's keen eyes, trained to
sun-scorched distances, detected a small circle of dully gleaming blue
steel among the rocks. That ring was the muzzle of a rifle, but
Reynolds well knew who lay behind that muzzle.

The feud between Cal Reynolds and Esau Brill had been long, for a
Texas feud. Up in the Kentucky mountains family wars may straggle on
for generations, but the geographical conditions and human temperament
of the Southwest were not conducive to long-drawn-out hostilities.
There feuds were generally concluded with appalling suddenness and
finality. The stage was a saloon, the streets of a little cow-town, or
the open range. Sniping from the laurel was exchanged for the
close-range thundering of six-shooters and sawed-off shotguns which
decided matters quickly, one way or the other.

The case of Cal Reynolds and Esau Brill was somewhat out of the
ordinary. In the first place, the feud concerned only themselves.
Neither friends nor relatives were drawn into it. No one, including
the participants, knew just how it started. Cal Reynolds merely knew
that he had hated Esau Brill most of his life, and that Brill
reciprocated. Once as youths they had clashed with the violence and
intensity of rival young catamounts. From that encounter Reynolds
carried away a knife scar across the edge of his ribs, and Brill a
permanently impaired eye. It had decided nothing. They had fought to a
bloody gasping deadlock, and neither had felt any desire to 'shake
hands and make up.' That is a hypocrisy developed in civilization,
where men have no stomach for fighting to the death. After a man has
felt his adversary's knife grate against his bones, his adversary's
thumb gouging at his eyes, his adversary's boot-heels stamped into his
mouth, he is scarcely inclined to forgive and forget, regardless of
the original merits of the argument.

So Reynolds and Brill carried their mutual hatred into manhood, and as
cowpunchers riding for rival ranches, it followed that they found
opportunities to carry on their private war. Reynolds rustled cattle
from Brill's boss, and Brill returned the compliment. Each raged at
the other's tactics, and considered himself justified in eliminating
his enemy in any way that he could. Brill caught Reynolds without his
gun one night in a saloon at Cow Wells, and only an ignominious flight
out the back way, with bullets barking at his heels, saved the
Reynolds scalp.

Again Reynolds, lying in the chaparral, neatly knocked his enemy out
of his saddle at five hundred yards with a .30-.30 slug, and, but for
the inopportune appearance of a line-rider, the feud would have ended
there, Reynolds deciding, in the face of this witness, to forego his
original intention of leaving his covert and hammering out the wounded
man's brains with his rifle butt.

Brill recovered from his wound, having the vitality of a longhorn
bull, in common with all his sun-leathered iron-thewed breed, and as
soon as he was on his feet, he came gunning for the man who had
waylaid him.

Now after these onsets and skirmishes, the enemies faced each other at
good rifle range, among the lonely hills where interruption was
unlikely.

For more than an hour they had lain among the rocks, shooting at each
hint of movement. Neither had scored a hit, though the .30-.30's
whistled perilously close.

In each of Reynold's temples a tiny pulse hammered maddeningly. The
sun beat down on him and his shirt was soaked with sweat. Gnats
swarmed about his head, getting into his eyes, and he cursed
venomously. His wet hair was plastered to his scalp; his eyes burned
with the glare of the sun, and the rifle barrel was hot to his
calloused hand. His right leg was growing numb and he shifted it
cautiously, cursing at the jingle of the spur, though he knew Brill
could not hear. All this discomfort added fuel to the fire of his
wrath. Without process of conscious reasoning, he attributed all his
suffering to his enemy. The sun beat dazingly on his sombrero, and his
thoughts were slightly addled. It was hotter than the hearthstone of
hell among those bare rocks. His dry tongue caressed his baked lips.

Through the muddle of his brain burned his hatred of Esau Brill. It
had become more than an emotion: it was an obsession, a monstrous
incubus. When he flinched from the whip-crack of Brill's rifle, it was
not from fear of death, but because the thought of dying at the hands
of his foe was an intolerable horror that made his brain rock with red
frenzy. He would have thrown his life away recklessly, if by so doing
he could have sent Brill into eternity just three seconds ahead of
himself.

He did not analyze these feelings. Men who live by their hands have
little time for self-analysis. He was no more aware of the quality of
his hate for Esau Brill than he was consciously aware of his hands and
feet. It was part of him, and more than part: it enveloped him,
engulfed him; his mind and body were no more than its material
manifestations. He was the hate; it was the whole soul and spirit of
him. Unhampered by the stagnant and enervating shackles of
sophistication and intellectuality, his instincts rose sheer from the
naked primitive. And from them crystallized an almost tangible
abstraction--a hate too strong for even death to destroy; a hate
powerful enough to embody itself in itself, without the aid or the
necessity of material substance.

For perhaps a quarter of an hour neither rifle had spoken. Instinct
with death as rattlesnakes coiled among the rocks soaking up poison
from the sun's rays, the feudists lay each waiting his chance, playing
the game of endurance until the taut nerves of one or the other should
snap.

It was Esau Brill who broke. Not that his collapse took the form of
any wild madness or nervous explosion. The wary instincts of the wild
were too strong in him for that. But suddenly, with a screamed curse,
he hitched up on his elbow and fired blindly at the tangle of stones
which concealed his enemy. Only the upper part of his arm and the
corner of his blue-shirted shoulder were for an instant visible. That
was enough. In that flash-second Cal Reynolds jerked the trigger, and
a frightful yell told him his bullet had found its mark. And at the
animal pain in that yell, reason and life-long instincts were swept
away by an insane flood of terrible joy. He did not whoop exultantly
and spring to his feet; but his teeth bared in a wolfish grin and he
involuntarily raised his head. Waking instinct jerked him down again.
It was chance that undid him. Even as he ducked back, Brill's
answering shot cracked.

Cal Reynolds did not hear it, because, simultaneously with the sound,
something exploded in his skull, plunging him into utter blackness,
shot briefly with red sparks.

The blackness was only momentary. Cal Reynolds glared wildly around,
realizing with a frenzied shock that he was lying in the open. The
impact of the shot had sent him rolling from among the rocks, and in
that quick instant he realized that it had not been a direct hit.
Chance had sent the bullet glancing from a stone, apparently to flick
his scalp in passing. That was not so important. What was important
was that he was lying out in full view, where Esau Brill could fill
him full of lead. A wild glance showed his rifle lying close by. It
had fallen across a stone and lay with the stock against the ground,
the barrel slanting upward. Another glance showed his enemy standing
upright among the stones that had concealed him.

In that one glance Cal Reynolds took in the details of the tall, rangy
figure: the stained trousers sagging with the weight of the holstered
six-shooter, the legs tucked into the worn leather boots; the streak
of crimson on the shoulder of the blue shirt, which was plastered to
the wearer's body with sweat; the tousled black hair, from which
perspiration was pouring down the unshaven face. He caught the glint
of yellow tobacco-stained teeth shining in a savage grin. Smoke still
drifted from the rifle in Brill's hands.

These familiar and hated details stood out in startling clarity during
the fleeting instant while Reynolds struggled madly against the unseen
chains which seemed to hold him to the earth. Even as he thought of
the paralysis a glancing blow on the head might induce, something
seemed to snap and he rolled free. Rolled is hardly the word: he
seemed almost to dart to the rifle that lay across the rock, so light
his limbs felt.

Dropping behind the stone he seized the weapon. He did not even have
to lift it. As it lay it bore directly on the man who was now
approaching.

His hand was momentarily halted by Esau Brill's strange behavior.
Instead of firing or leaping back into cover the man came straight on,
his rifle in the crook of his arm, that damnable leer still on his
unshaven lips. Was he mad? Could he not see that his enemy was up
again, raging with life, and with a cocked rifle at his heart? Brill
seemed not to be looking at him, but to one side, at the spot where
Reynolds had just been lying.

Without seeking further for the explanation of his foe's actions, Cal
Reynolds pulled the trigger. With the vicious spang of the report a
blue shred leaped from Brill's broad breast. He staggered back, his
mouth flying open. And the look on his face froze Reynolds again. Esau
Brill came of a breed which fights to its last gasp. Nothing was more
certain than that he would go down pulling the trigger blindly until
the last red vestige of life left him. Yet the ferocious triumph was
wiped from his face with the crack of the shot, to be replaced by an
awful expression of dazed surprize. He made no move to lift his rifle,
which slipped from his grasp, nor did he clutch at his wound. Throwing
out his hands in a strange, stunned, helpless way, he reeled backward
on slowly buckling legs, his features frozen into a mask of stupid
amazement that made his watcher shiver with its cosmic horror.

Through the opened lips gushed a tide of blood, dyeing the damp shirt.
And like a tree that sways and rushes suddenly earthward, Esau Brill
crashed down among the mesquite-grass and lay motionless.

Cal Reynolds rose, leaving the rifle where it lay. The rolling
grass-grown hills swam misty and indistinct to his gaze. Even the sky
and the blazing sun had a hazy unreal aspect. But a savage content was in
his soul. The long feud was over at last, and whether he had taken his
death-wound or not, he had sent Esau Brill to blaze the trail to hell
ahead of him.

Then he started violently as his gaze wandered to the spot where he
had rolled after being hit. He glared; were his eyes playing him
tricks? Yonder in the grass Esau Brill lay dead--yet only a few feet
away stretched another body.

Rigid with surprize, Reynolds glared at the rangy figure, slumped
grotesquely beside the rocks. It lay partly on its side, as if flung
there by some blind convulsion, the arms outstretched, the fingers
crooked as if blindly clutching. The short-cropped sandy hair was
splashed with blood, and from a ghastly hole in the temple the brains
were oozing. From a corner of the mouth seeped a thin trickle of
tobacco juice to stain the dusty neck-cloth.

And as he gazed, an awful familiarity made itself evident. He knew the
feel of those shiny leather wrist-bands; he knew with fearful
certainty whose hands had buckled that gun-belt; the tang of that
tobacco juice was still on his palate.

In one brief destroying instant he knew he was looking down at his own
lifeless body. And with the knowledge came true oblivion.



THE END



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