by Max Brand
She caught her breath. “That would be ruinous, of course. But he’ll never learn. Only you and I know.”
“A very hard blow, eh,” said Vance, “if he were robbed of the Colby illusion and had Black Jack put in its place as a cold fact? But of course we’ll never tell him. In the meantime, what’s all this mysterious changing of rooms mean, Elizabeth?”
Her color was never high. Now it became gray. Only her eyes remained burning, vivid, young. A woman who has never married and given of her life to make the lives of others, always retains one feature of undying youth—eyes, hair, smile, voice, perhaps. That one feature remains forever young and blazes out at one, now and then, through the mask of age.
“Remember you said his blood would tell before he was twenty-five . . . that the blood of Black Jack would come to the surface . . . that he would have shot a man?”
“Still harping on that, Elizabeth? What if he does?”
“I’d disown him, throw him out penniless on the world, never see him again.”
“You’re a Spartan,” said her brother in awe, as he looked on that thin, stern face. “Terry is your theory. If he disappoints you, he’ll be simply a theory gone wrong. You’ll cut him out of your life as if he were an algebraic equation and never think of him again.”
“But he’s not going wrong, Vance. Because, in ten days, he’ll be twenty-five. And that’s what all these changes mean. The moment it grows dark on the night of his twenty-fifth birthday I’m going to take him into my father’s room and turn it over to him.”
He had listened to her patiently, a little wearied by her unusual flow of words. Now he came out of his apathy with a jerk. He laid his hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder and turned her so that the light shone full in her face. Then he studied her. “What do you mean by that, Elizabeth?”
“Vance,” she said steadily, but with a touch of pity in her voice, “I have waited for a score of years, hoping that you’d settle down and try to do a man’s work either here or somewhere else. You haven’t done it. Yesterday Mister Cornwall came here to draw up my will. By that will I leave you an annuity. Vance, that will take care of you in comfort . . . but I leave everything else to Terry Colby. That’s why I’ve changed the room. The moment it grows dark ten days from today I’m going to take Terry by the hand and lead him into the room and into the position of my father.”
Who shall say that there was not just a touch of unsisterly triumph, unwomanly hardness in the gaze that Elizabeth fixed upon her brother? There was some excuse. She had worked long and struggled bitterly, and all these years he had waited in idle comfort for her death to reap the harvest of her work. But more was revealed to her than she had expected. Under her keen eyes it seemed that the mask of youth that was Vance Cornish crumbled and fell away.
The flight of the years that he had hitherto escaped and outrun suddenly overtook him. A new man looked down at her. The firm flesh of his face became loose. His whole body was flabby. She had the feeling that, if she pushed against his chest with the weight of her arm, he would topple to the floor. That weakness gradually passed. A peculiar strength of purpose grew in its place.
“Of course, this is a very shrewd game, Elizabeth. You want to wake me up. You’re using the spur to make me work. I don’t blame you for using the bluff, even if it’s a rather cruel one. But of course it’s impossible for you to be serious in what you say.”
“Why impossible, Vance?”
“Because you know that I’m the last male representative of our family. Because you know my father would turn in his grave if he knew that an interloper, a foundling, the child of a murderer, a vagabond, had been made the heir to his estate. But you aren’t serious, Elizabeth, I understand.” He swallowed his pride, for panic grew in him in proportion to the length of time she maintained her silence.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t blame you for giving me a scare, my dear sister. I have been a shameless loafer. I’m going to reform and lift the burden of business off your shoulders . . . let you rest the remainder of your life.”
It was the worst thing he could have said. He realized it the moment he had spoken. This forced, cowardly surrender was worse than brazen defiance, and he saw her lip curl. An idler is apt to be like a sullen child, except that in a grown man the child’s sulky spite becomes a dark malice, all-embracing. For the very reason that Vance knew he was receiving what he deserved, and that this was the just reward for his thriftless years of idleness, he began to hate Elizabeth with a cold, quiet hatred. There is something stimulating about any great passion. Now Vance felt his nerves soothed and calmed. His self-possession returned with a rush. He was suddenly able to smile into her face.
“After all,” he said, “you’re absolutely right. I’ve been a failure, Elizabeth . . . a rank, disheartening failure. You’d be foolish to trust the result of your life labors in my hands . . . entirely foolish. I admit that it’s a shrewd blow to see the estate go to . . . Terry.” He found it oddly difficult to name the boy. “But why not? Why not Terry? He’s a clean youngster, and he may turn out very well . . . in spite of his blood. I hope so. I really expect that he will. The Lord knows you’ve given him every chance and the best start in the world. I wish him luck.”
He reached out his hand, and her bloodless fingers closed strongly over it.
“There’s the old Vance talking,” she said warmly, a mist across her eyes. “I almost thought that part of you had died. But it’s just as Terry says . . . Vance is a good sport.”
He writhed inwardly to have the boy’s judgment quoted to his face. “That’s mighty kind of Terry,” he said aloud. “By Jove, Elizabeth, think of that boy, coming out of nothing, everything poured into his hands . . . and now within ten days of his goal. Rather exciting, isn’t it? Suppose he should stumble at the very threshold of his success? Eh?” He pressed the point with singular insistence. “Doesn’t it make your heart beat, Elizabeth, when you think that he might fall . . . that he might do what I prophesied so long ago . . . shoot a man before he’s twenty-five?”
She shrugged the supposition calmly away. “My faith in him is based as strongly as the rocks, Vance. But if he fell, after the schooling I’ve given him, I’d throw him out of my life . . . forever.”
He paused a moment, studying her face with a peculiar eagerness. Then he shrugged in turn. “Tush! Of course that’s impossible. Let’s go down.”
Chapter Three
When they reached the front porch, deep-set, running across the entire face of the building, they saw Terence Colby coming up the terrace from the river road on Le Sangre. And a changed horse he was. One ear was forward as if he did not know what lay in store for him, but would try to be on the alert. One ear flagged warily back. He went slowly, lifting his feet with the care of a very weary horse. Yet, when the wind fluttered a gust of whirling leaves beside him, he leaped aside and stood with high head, staring, transformed in the instant into a creature of fire and wire-strung nerves. The rider gave to the side-spring with supple grace, and then sent the stallion on up the hill.
Joyous triumph was in the face of Terry. His black hair, rather in need of the barber, was blowing about his forehead, for his hat was pushed back after the manner of one who has done a hard day’s work and is ready to rest. He came close to the verandah, and Le Sangre lifted his fine head and stared fearlessly, curiously, with a sort of contemptuous pride, at Elizabeth and Vance.
“The killer is no longer a killer,” Terry said, and laughed. “Look him over, Uncle Vance. A beauty, eh?”
Elizabeth said nothing at all. But she rocked herself back and forth a trifle in her chair as she nodded. She glanced over the terrace, hoping that others might be there to see the triumph of her boy. Then she looked back at Terence. But Vance was regarding the horse.
“He might have a bit more in the legs, Terry.”
“Not much more. A leggy horse can’t stand mountain work . . . or any other work, for that matter, except a ride in the park.”
�
��I suppose you’re right. He’s a picture horse, Terry. And a devilish eye, but I see that you’ve beaten him.”
“Beaten him?” He shook his head. “We reached a gentleman’s agreement. As long as I wear spurs, he’ll fight me till he gets his teeth in me or splashes my skull to bits with his heels. Otherwise, he’ll keep on fighting till he drops. But as soon as I take off the spurs and stop tormenting him, he’ll do what I like. No whips or spurs for Le Sangre. Eh, boy?” He held out the spurs so that the sun flashed on them. The horse stiffened with a shudder, and that forward look of a horse about to bolt came in his eyes.
“No, no!” cried Elizabeth.
But Terry laughed and dropped the spurs back in his pocket. “I should say not. Le Sangre has crowded a week’s work into twenty minutes, and I feel as if I’d been fighting a tornado. Come, boy.”
The stallion moved off, and Terry waved to them. Just as he turned the mind of Vance Cornish raced back to another picture—a man with long, black hair blowing about his face and a gun in either hand, sweeping through a dusty street with shots barking behind him. It came suddenly as a revelation, and left him down-headed with the thought.
“What is it, Vance?” asked his sister, reaching out to touch his arm.
“Nothing.” Then he added abruptly: “I’m going for a jaunt for a few days, Elizabeth.”
She grew gloomy. “Are you going to insist on taking it to heart this way?”
“Not at all. I’m going to be back here in ten days and drink to Terry’s long life and happiness across the birthday-dinner table.”
He marveled at the ease with which he could make himself smile in her face, and he also marveled that she did not see through him. Instead, she was flushing and nodding with pleasure. After all, decided Vance, most women are fools, and Elizabeth is no exception.
“You noticed that,” she was saying, “. . . his gentleman’s agreement with Le Sangre? I’ve made him detest fighting with the idea that only brute beasts fight . . . men argue and agree.”
“I’ve noticed that he never has trouble with the cowpunchers.”
“They’ve seen him box,” Elizabeth chuckled. “Besides, Terry isn’t the sort that troublemakers like to pick on. He has an ugly look when he’s angry.”
“H-m-m,” murmured Vance. “I’ve noticed that. But as long as he keeps to his fists, he’ll do no harm. But what is the reason for surrounding him with guns, Elizabeth?”
“A very good reason. He loves them, you know. Anything from a shotgun to a Derringer is a source of joy to Terence. And not a day goes by that he doesn’t handle them.”
“Certainly the effect of blood, eh?” suggested Vance.
She glanced sharply at him. “You’re determined to be disagreeable today, Vance. As a matter of fact, I’ve convinced him that for the very reason he is so accurate with a gun he must never enter a gunfight. The advantage would be too much on his side against any ordinary man. That appeals to Terry’s sense of fair play. No, he’s absolutely safe, no matter how you look at it.”
“No doubt.”
He looked away from her and over the valley. The day had worn into the late afternoon. Bear Creek ran dull and dark in the shadow, and Mount Discovery was robed in blue to the very edge of its shining crown of snow. In this dimmer, richer light the Cornish Ranch had never seemed so desirable to Vance. The wind had fallen away in this holy time of the day, and in the quiet the steady rush of the waterfall that tumbled over the side of Elizabeth’s dam drew nearer to them.
Sunset was beginning to color the white spray already, and along the rapids where Bear Creek tumbled down out of Sleep Mountain there was a stain from a red cloud hanging high in the west. It was not a ranch; it was a little kingdom. And Vance was the dispossessed heir.
He knew that he was being watched, however, and all that evening he was at his best. At the dinner table he guided the talk so that Terence Colby was the lion of the conversation. Afterward, when he was packing his things in his room for his journey of the next day, he was careful to sing at the top of his voice. He reaped a reward for this cautious acting, for the next morning, when he climbed into the buckboard that was to take him down the Blue Mountain Road and over to the railroad, his sister came down the steps and stood beside the wagon.
“You will come back for the birthday party, Vance?” she pleaded.
“You want me to?”
“You were with me when I got Terry. In fact, you got him for me. And I want you to be here when he steps into his own.”
In this he found enough to keep him thoughtful all the way to the railroad while the buckskins grunted up the grade and then spun away down the long slope beyond. It was one of those little ironies of fate that he should have picked up the very man who was to disinherit him some twenty-four years later.
He turned the matter over in his mind when he was on the train. He decided that he had no grudge against Elizabeth. She had earned the ranch for herself, and she had a right to dispose of it as she saw fit. But she was overstepping. The law might have something to say in his favor if she attempted to let him off with an annuity and give all the rest to the foundling. However, he had no desire to fall back on the law save as a last resort. He had a deep-seated desire to upset Elizabeth with her own weapons.
He carried no grudge against her, but he certainly retained no tenderness. Hereafter he would act his part as well as he could to extract the last possible penny out of her. And in the meantime he must concentrate on tripping up Terence Colby, alias Hollis.
Vance saw nothing particularly vicious in this. He had been idle so long that he rejoiced in a work that was within his mental range. It included scheming, working always behind the scenes, pulling strings to make others jump. And if he could trip Terry and actually make him shoot a man on or before that birthday, he had no doubt that his sister would actually throw the boy out of her house and out of her life. A woman who could give twenty-four years to a theory would be capable of grim things when the theory went wrong.
It was early evening when he climbed off the train at Garrison City. He had not visited the place since that cattle-buying trip of twenty-four years ago that brought the son of Black Jack into the affairs of the Cornish family. Garrison City was mightily changed. In fact, it had become a city. There were two solid blocks of brick buildings next to the station, a network of paved streets, and no less than three hotels. It was so new to the eye and so obviously full of the booster spirit that he was appalled at the idea of prying through this modern shell and getting back to the heart and the memory of the old days of the town. He found the work even harder than he had thought.
At the restaurant he forced himself upon a grave-looking gentleman across the table. He found that the solemn-faced man was a traveling drummer. The venerable loafer in front of the blacksmith shop was feeble-minded, and merely gaped at the name of Black Jack. The proprietor of the hotel shook his head with positive antagonism.
“Of course, Garrison City has its past,” he admitted, “but we are living it down, and have succeeded pretty well. I think I’ve heard of a ruffian of the last generation named Jack Hollis . . . but I don’t know anything, and I don’t care to know anything about him. But if you’re interested in Garrison City, I’d like to show you a little plot of ground in a place that is going to be the center of the . . .”
Vance Cornish made his mind a blank, let the smooth current of words slip off his memory as from an oiled surface, and gave up Garrison City as a hopeless job. Nevertheless it was the hotel proprietor who dropped a valuable hint.
“If you’re interested in the early legends, why don’t you go to the state capital. They have every magazine and every book that so much as mentions any place in the state.”
So Vance Cornish went to the capital and entered the library. It was a sweaty task and a most discouraging one. The name Black Jack revealed nothing, and the name of Hollis was an equal blank, so far as the indices were concerned. Those were not the days when the magazines flung ou
t an army of scouts who skirmished from the North Pole to the south, from the pearl-diver to the Matterhorn, on a tireless hunt for adventures and adventurers, facts, or talk about facts. It was before the days when writers learned to give intimate portraits of statesmen at tea or débutantes playing golf.
Ten years later, had he lived so long, Black Jack Hollis would have been hunted to the ground by fearless photographers and treed by daredevil reporters and immortalized in numberless pages of bad prose. As it was, he was preserved in legend only, and Vance Cornish could make no vital use of legend. He wanted something in cold print.
So he began an exhaustive search. He went through volume after volume of travel—the musty travel books that drenched the market in the late ’Seventies and the early ’Eighties with photographs of the authors in tight gray trousers and frock coats on the first page and thousands of words of watered Macaulay. He stayed grimly by his task, but, although he came upon mention of Black Jack, he never reached the account of an eyewitness of any of those stirring hold-ups or train robberies.
And then he began on the old files of magazines—magazines that were so hopelessly antiquated that they still thought they could hold a reader with page-long poems instead of tag ends of verse for decoration. And still nothing. He was about to give up with four days of patient labor wasted when he struck gold in the desert—the very mine of information that he wanted.
How I Painted Black Jack by Lawrence Montgomery.
There was the photograph of the painter to begin with—a man who had discovered the beauty of the deserts of the Southwest. But there was more—much more. It told how, in his wandering across the desert, he had hunted for something more than sand and rocks at dawn and at sunset—raw-colored sands and purple mesas blooming in the distance.
He had searched for a human being to fit into the picture and give the softening touch of life. But he never found the right type. He found white men and Indians in plenty, but never the face for which he had been looking. And then luck came and tapped him on the shoulder. A lone rider came out of the dusk and the desert and loomed beside his campfire. The moment the firelight flushed on the face of the man he knew this was the face for which he had been searching. He told how they fried bacon and ate it together; he told of the soft voice and the winning smile of the rider; he told of his eyes, unspeakably soft and unspeakably bold, and the agile, nervous hands, forever shifting and moving in the firelight.
