by Max Brand
Jack Baldwin was agreeing fervently when the storekeeper made a violent signal.
“There’s Larrimer now, and he looks all fired up.”
Terry turned and saw a tall fellow standing in the doorway. He had been prepared for a youth; he saw before him a hardened man of thirty and more, gaunt-faced, bristling with the rough beard of some five or six days’ growth, a thin, cruel, hawklike face.
CHAPTER 30
A moment later, from the side door which led from the store into the main body of the hotel, stepped the chunky form of Denver Pete, quick and light of foot as ever. He went straight to the counter and asked for matches, and as the storekeeper, still keeping half an eye upon the formidable figure of Larrimer, turned for the matches, Denver spoke softly from the side of his mouth to Terry—only in the lockstep line of the prison do they learn to talk in this manner—gauging the carrying power of the whisper with nice accuracy.
“That bird’s after you. Crazy with booze in the head, but steady in the hand. One of two things. Clear out right now, or else say the word and I’ll stay and help you get rid of him.”
For the first time in his life fear swept over Terry—fear of himself compared with which the qualm he had felt after turning from Slim Dugan that morning had been nothing. For the second time in one day he was being tempted, and the certainty came to him that he would kill Larrimer. And what made that certainty more sure was the appearance of his nemesis, Denver Pete, in this crisis. As though, with sure scent for evil, Denver had come to be present and watch the launching of Terry into a career of crime. But it was not the public that Terry feared. It was himself. His moral determination was a dam which blocked fierce currents in him that were struggling to get free. And a bullet fired at Larrimer would be the thing that burst the dam and let the flood waters of self-will free. Thereafter what stood in his path would be crushed and swept aside.
He said to Denver: “This is my affair, not yours. Stand away, Denver. And pray for me.”
A strange request. It shattered even the indomitable self-control of Denver and left him gaping.
Larrimer, having completed his survey of the dim interior of the store, stalked down upon them. He saw Terry for the first time, paused, and his bloodshot little eyes ran up and down the body of the stranger. He turned to the storekeeper, but still half of his attention was fixed upon Terry.
“Bill,” he said, “you seen anything of a spavined, long-horned, no-good skunk named Hollis around town today?”
And Terry could see him wait, quivering, half in hopes that the stranger would show some anger at this denunciation.
“Ain’t seen nobody by that name,” said Bill mildly. “Maybe you’re chasing a wild goose? Who told you they was a gent named Hollis around?”
“Black Jack’s son,” insisted Larrimer. “Wild-goose chase, hell! I was told he was around by a gent named—”
“These ain’t the kind of matches I want!” cried Denver Pete, with a strangely loud-voiced wrath. “I don’t want painted wood. How can a gent whittle one of these damned matches down to toothpick size? Gimme plain wood, will you?”
The storekeeper, wondering, made the exchange. Drunken Larrimer had roved on, forgetful of his unfinished sentence. For the very purpose of keeping that sentence unfinished, Denver Pete remained on the scene, edging toward the outskirts. Now was to come, in a single moment, both the temptation and the test of Terry Hollis, and well Denver knew that if Larrimer fell with a bullet in his body there would be an end of Terry Hollis in the world and the birth of a new soul—the true son of Black Jack!
“It’s him that plugged Sheriff Minter,” went on Larrimer. “I hear tell as how he got the sheriff from behind and plugged him. This town ain’t a place for a man-killing houn’ dog like young Black Jack, and I’m here to let him know it!”
The torrent of abuse died out in a crackle of curses. Terry Hollis stood as one stunned. Yet his hand stayed free of his gun.
“Suppose we go on to the hotel and eat?” he asked Jack Baldwin softly. “No use staying and letting that fellow deafen us with his oaths, is there?”
“Better than a circus,” declared Baldwin. “Wouldn’t miss it. Since old man Harkness died, I ain’t heard cussing to match up with Larrimer’s. Didn’t know that he had that much brains.”
It seemed that the fates were surely against Terry this day. Yet still he determined to dodge the issue. He started toward the door, taking care not to walk hastily enough to draw suspicion on him because of his withdrawal, but to the heated brain of Larrimer all things were suspicious. His long arm darted out as Terry passed him; he jerked the smaller man violently back.
“Wait a minute. I don’t know you, kid. Maybe you got the information I want?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Terry blinked. It seemed to him that if he looked again at that vicious, contracted face, his gun would slip into his hand of its own volition.
“Who are you?”
“A stranger in these parts,” said Terry slowly, and he looked down at the floor.
He heard a murmur from the men at the other end of the room. He knew that small, buzzing sound. They were wondering at the calmness with which he “took water.”
“So’s Hollis a stranger in these parts,” said Larrimer, facing his victim more fully. “What I want to know is about the gent that owns the red hoss in front of the store. Ever hear of him?”
Terry was silent. By a vast effort he was able to shake his head. It was hard, bitterly hard, but every good influence that had ever come into his life now stood beside him and fought with and for him—Elizabeth Cornish, the long and fictitious line of his Colby ancestors, Kate Pollard with her clear-seeing eyes. He saw her last of all. When the men were scorning him for the way he had avoided this battle, she, at least, would understand, and her understanding would be a mercy.
“Hollis is somewhere around,” declared Larrimer, drawing back and biting his lip. “I know it, damn well. His hoss is standing out yonder. I know what’ll fetch him. I’ll shoot that hoss of his, and that’ll bring him—if young Black Jack is half the man they say he is! I ain’t out to shoot cowards—I want men!”
He strode to the door.
“Don’t do it!” shouted Bill, the storekeeper.
“Shut up!” snapped Baldwin. “I know something. Shut up!”
That fierce, low voice reached the ear of Terry, and he understood that it meant Baldwin had judged him as the whole world judged him. After all, what difference did it make whether he killed or not? He was already damned as a slayer of men by the name of his father before him.
Larrimer had turned with a roar.
“What d’you mean by stopping me, Bill? What in hell d’you mean by it?”
With the brightness of the door behind him, his bearded face was wolfish.
“Nothing,” quavered Bill, this torrent of danger pouring about him. “Except—that it ain’t very popular around here—shooting hosses, Larrimer.”
“Damn you and your ideas,” said Larrimer. “I’m going to go my own way. I know what’s best.”
He reached the door, his hand went back to the butt of his revolver.
And then it snapped in Terry, that last restraint which had been at the breaking-point all this time. He felt a warmth run through him—the warmth of strength and the cold of a mysterious and evil happiness.
“Wait, Larrimer!”
The big man whirled as though he had heard a gun; there was a ring in the voice of Terry like the ring down the barrel of a shotgun after it has been cocked.
“You agin?” barked Larrimer.
“Me again. Larrimer, don’t shoot the horse.”
“Why not?”
“For the sake of your soul, my friend.”
“Boys, ain’t this funny? This gent is a sky-pilot, maybe?” He made a long stride back.
“Stop where you are!” cried Terry.
He stood like a soldier with his heels together, straight, trembling. And Larrimer stop
ped as though a blow had checked him.
“I may be your sky-pilot, Larrimer. But listen to sense. Do you really mean you’d shoot that red horse in front of the hotel?”
“Ain’t you heard me say it?”
“Then the Lord pity you, Larrimer!”
Ordinarily Larrimer’s gun would have been out long before, but the change from this man’s humility of the moment before, his almost cringing meekness, to his present defiance was so startling that Larrimer was momentarily at sea.
“Damn my eyes,” he remarked furiously, “this is funny, this is. Are you preaching at me, kid? What d’you mean by that? Eh?”
“I’ll tell you why. Face me squarely, will you? Your head up, and your hands ready.”
In spite of his rage and wonder, Larrimer instinctively obeyed, for the words came snapping out like military commands.
“Now I’ll tell you. You manhunting cur, I’m going to send you to hell with your sins on your head. I’m going to kill you, Larrimer!”
It was so unexpected, so totally startling, that Larrimer blinked, raised his head, and laughed.
But the son of Black Jack tore away all thought of laughter.
“Larrimer, I’m Terry Hollis. Get your gun!”
The wide mouth of Larrimer writhed silently from mirth to astonishment, and then sinister rage. And though he was in the shadow against the door, Terry saw the slow gleam in the face of the tall man—then his hand whipped for the gun. It came cleanly out. There was no flap to his holster, and the sight had been filed away to give more oiled and perfect freedom to the draw. Years of patient practice had taught his muscles to reflex in this one motion with a speed that baffled the eye. Fast as light that draw seemed to those who watched, and the draw of Terry Hollis appeared to hang in midair. His hand wavered, then clutched suddenly, and they saw a flash of metal, not the actual motion of drawing the gun. Just that gleam of the barrel at his hip, hardly clear of the holster, and then in the dimness of the big room a spurt of flame and the boom of the gun.
There was a clangor of metal at the farthest end of the room. Larrimer’s gun had rattled on the boards, unfired. He tossed up his great gaunt arms as though he were appealing for help, leaped into the air, and fell heavily, with a force that vibrated the floor where Terry stood.
There was one heartbeat of silence.
Then Terry shoved the gun slowly back into his holster and walked to the body of Larrimer.
To these things Bill, the storekeeper, and Jack Baldwin, the rancher, afterward swore. That young Black Jack leaned a little over the corpse and then straightened and touched the fallen hand with the toe of his boot. Then he turned upon them a perfectly calm, unemotional look.
“I seem to have been elected to do the scavenger work in this town,” he said. “But I’m going to leave it to you gentlemen to take the carrion away. Shorty, I’m going back to the house. Are you ready to ride that way?”
When they went to the body of Larrimer afterward, they found a neat, circular splotch of purple exactly placed between the eyes.
CHAPTER 31
The first thing the people in Pollard’s big house knew of the return of the two was a voice singing faintly and far off in the stable—they could hear it because the door to the big living room was opened. And Kate Pollard, who had been sitting idly at the piano, stood up suddenly and looked around her. It did not interrupt the crap game of the four at one side of the room, where they kneeled in a close circle. But it brought big Pollard himself to the door in time to meet Denver Pete as the latter hurried in.
When Denver was excited he talked very nearly as softly as he walked. And his voice tonight was like a contented humming.
“It worked,” was all he said aside to Pollard as he came through the door. They exchanged silent grips of the hands. Then Kate drew down on them; as if a mysterious; signal had been passed to them by the subdued entrance of Denver, the four rose at the side of the room.
It was Pollard who forced him to talk.
“What happened?”
“A pretty little party,” said Denver. His purring voice was so soft that to hear him the others instantly drew close. Kate Pollard stood suddenly before him.
“Terry Hollis has done something,” she said. “Denver, what has he done?”
“Him? Nothing much. To put it in his own words, he’s just played scavenger for the town—and he’s done it in a way they won’t be forgetting for a good long day.
“Denver!”
“Well? No need of acting up, Kate.”
“Who was it?”
“Ever meet young Larrimer?”
She shuddered. “Yes. A—beast of a man.”
“Sure. Worse’n a beast, maybe. Well, he’s carrion now, to use Terry’s words again.”
“Wait a minute,” cut in big blond Phil Marvin. Don’t spoil the story for Terry. But did he really do for Larrimer? Larrimer was a neat one with a gun—no good otherwise.”
“Did he do for Larrimer?” echoed Denver in his purring voice. “Oh, man, man! Did he do for Larrimer? And I ain’t spoiling his story. He won’t talk about it. Wouldn’t open his face about it all the way home. A pretty neat play, boys. Larrimer was looking for a rep, and he wanted to make it on Black Jack’s son. Came tearing in.
“At first Terry tried to sidestep him. Made me weak inside for a minute because I thought he was going to take water. Then he got riled a bit and then—whang! It was all over. Not a body shot. No, boys, nothing clumsy and amateurish like that, because a man may live to empty his gun at you after he’s been shot through the body. This young Hollis, pals, just ups and drills Larrimer clean between the eyes. If you’d measured it off with a ruler, you couldn’t have hit exact center any better’n he done. Then he walks up and stirs Larrimer with his toe to make sure he was dead. Cool as hell.”
“You lie!” cried the girl suddenly.
They whirled at her, and found her standing and flaming at them.
“You hear me say it, Kate,” said Denver, losing a little of his calm.
“He wasn’t as cool as that—after killing a man. He wasn’t.”
“All right, honey. Don’t you hear him singing out there in the stable? Does that sound as if he was cut up much?”
“Then you’ve made him a murderer—you, Denver, and you, Dad. Oh, if they’s a hell, you’re going to travel there for this! Both of you!”
“As if we had anything to do with it!” exclaimed Denver innocently. “Besides, it wasn’t murder. It was plain self-defense. Nothing but that. Three witnesses to swear to it. But, my, my—you should hear that town rave. They thought nobody could beat Larrimer.”
The girl slipped back into her chair again and sat with her chin in her hand, brooding. It was all impossible—it could not be. Yet there was Denver telling his story, and far away the clear baritone of Terry Hollis singing as he cared for El Sangre.
She waited to make sure, waited to see his face and hear him speak close at hand. Presently the singing rang out more clearly. He had stepped out of the barn.
Oh, I am a friar of orders gray, Through hill and valley I take my way. My long bead roll I merrily chant; Wherever I wander no money I want!
And as the last word rang through the room, Terry Hollis stood in the doorway, with his saddle and bridle hanging over one strong arm and his gun and gun belt in the other hand. And his voice came cheerily to them in greeting. It was impossible—more impossible than ever.
He crossed the room, hung up his saddle, and found her sitting near. What should he say? How would his color change? In what way could he face her with that stain in his soul?
And this was what Terry said to her: “I’m going to teach El Sangre to let you ride him, Kate. By the Lord, I wish you’d been with us going down the hill this morning!”
No shame, no downward head, no remorse. And he was subtly and strangely changed. She could not put the difference into words. But his eye seemed larger and brighter—it was no longer possible for her to look deeply into
it, as she had done so easily the night before. And there were other differences.
He held his head in a more lordly fashion. About every movement there was a singular ease and precision. He walked with a lighter step and with a catlike softness almost as odd as that of Denver. His step had been light before, but it was not like this. But through him and about him there was an air of uneasy, alert happiness—as of one who steals a few perfect moments, knowing that they will not be many. A great pity welled in her, and a great anger. It was the anger which showed.
“Terry Hollis, what have you done? You’re lookin’ me in the eye, but you ought to be hangin’ your head. You’ve done murder! Murder! Murder!”
She let the three words ring through the room like three blows, cutting the talk to silence. And all save Terry seemed moved.
He was laughing down at her—actually laughing, and there was no doubt as to the sincerity of that mirth. His presence drew her and repelled her; she became afraid for the first time in her life.
“A little formality with a gun,” he said calmly. “A dog got in my way, Kate—a mad dog. I shot the beast to keep it from doing harm.”
“Ah, Terry, I know everything. I’ve heard Denver tell it. I know it was a man, Terry.”
He insisted carelessly. “By the Lord, Kate, only a dog—and a mad dog at that. Perhaps there was the body of a man, but there was the soul of a dog inside the skin. Tut! it isn’t worth talking about.”
She drew away from him. “Terry, God pity you. I pity you,” she went on hurriedly and faintly. “But you ain’t the same any more, Terry. I—I’m almost afraid of you!”
He tried laughingly to stop her, and in a sudden burst of hysterical terror she fled from him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him come after her, light as a shadow. And the shadow leaped between her and the door; the force of her rush drove her into his arms.
In the distance she could hear the others laughing—they understood such a game as this, and enjoyed it with all their hearts. Ah, the fools!
He held her lightly, his fingertips under her elbows. For all the delicacy of that touch, she knew that if she attempted to flee, the grip would be iron. He would hold her where she was until he was through talking to her.
