by Max Brand
There was a bustle in the group of men. They were putting away the weapons and looking at one another, entirely dissatisfied, but not quite sure what they could do
“I am going to tell you exactly what has happened,” said Gainor. “You heard the unfortunate things that passed at the table today. What the sheriff said was not said as an insult, but under the circumstances it became necessary for Terence Hollis to resent what he had heard. As a man of honor he could not do otherwise. You all agree with me in that?”
They grunted a grudging assent. There were ways and ways of looking at such things. The way of Gainor was a generation old. But there was something so imposing about the old fellow, something that breathed the very spirit of honor and fair play, something so clean of heart and mind, that they could not argue the point.
“Accordingly Mister Hollis sent for the sheriff. Not to bring him outdoors and shoot him down in a sudden gun play . . . not to take advantage of him through a surprise as a good many men would have been tempted to do, my friends, for the sheriff has a wide reputation as a handler of guns of all sorts. No, sir, he sent for me, also, and he told us frankly that the bad blood between him and the sheriff must be spent. You understand? By the Lord, my friends, I admired the fine spirit of the lad. He expected to be shot rather than to drop the sheriff. I could tell that by his expression. But his eye did not falter. It carried me back to the old days . . . to old days, sirs!”
There was not a murmur in the entire room. The eye of Elizabeth Cornish was fire. Whether with anger or pride Vance could not tell. But he began to worry.
“We went over to the group of silver spruce near the house. I gave them the directions. They came and stood together, back to back, with their revolvers not drawn. They began to walk away in opposite directions at my command.
“When I called ‘turn’, they wheeled. My gun was ready to shoot down the first man guilty of foul play . . . but there was no attempt to turn too soon, before the signal. They whirled, snatching out their guns . . . and the revolver of the sheriff hung in his clothes.”
A groan from the little crowd.
“Although, upon my word,” said Gainor, “I do not think that the sheriff could have possibly brought out his gun as swiftly as Terence Hollis did. His whirl was like the spin of a top, or the snap of a whiplash, and, as he snapped about, the revolver was in his hand, not raised to draw a bead, but at his hip. The sheriff set his teeth . . . but Terry did not fire.”
A bewildered murmur from the crowd.
“No, my friends,” cried Gainor, his voice quivering, “he did not fire! He dropped the muzzle of his gun . . . and waited. By heaven, my heart went out to him. It was magnificent.”
The thin, strong hand of Elizabeth closed on the arm of Vance. “That was a Colby who did that,” she whispered.
“The sheriff gritted his teeth,” went on Gainor, “and tore out his gun. All this pause had been such a space as is needed for an eyelash to flicker twice. Out shot the sheriff’s Colt. And then, and not until then, did the muzzle of Terry’s revolver jerk up. Even after that delay he beat the sheriff to the trigger. The two shots came almost together, but the sheriff was already falling when he pulled his trigger, and his aim was wild.
“He dropped on one side, the revolver flying out of his hand. I started forward, and then I stopped. By heaven, the sheriff had stretched out his arm and picked up his gun again. He was not through fighting.
“A bulldog spirit, you say? Yes. And what could I do? It was the sheriff’s right to keep on fighting as long as he wished. And it was the right of Terence to shoot the man full of holes the minute his hand touched the revolver again.
“I could only stand still. I saw the sheriff raise his revolver. It was an effort of agony. But he was still trying to kill. And I nerved myself and waited for the explosion of the gun of Terence. I say I nerved myself for that shock, but the gun did not explode. I looked at him in wonder. My friends, he was putting up his gun and quietly looking the sheriff in the eye.
“At that I shouted to him, I don’t know what. I shouted to the sheriff not to fire. Too late. The muzzle of the gun was already tilting up, the barrel was straightening. And then the gun fell from Minter’s hand and he dropped on his side. His strength had failed him at the last moment.
“But I say, sirs, that what Terence Hollis did was the finest thing I have ever seen in my life, and I have seen fine things done by gentlemen before. There may be unpleasant associations with the name of Terry’s father. I, for one, shall never carry over those associations to the son. Never! He has my hand, my respect, my esteem in every detail. He is a gentleman, my friends. There is nothing for us to do. If the sheriff is unfortunate and the wound should prove fatal, Terence will give himself up to the law. If Minter lives, he will be the first to tell you to keep your hands off the boy.”
He ended in a little silence. But there was no appreciative burst of applause from those who heard him. The fine courage of Terence was, to them, merely the iron nerve of the man-killer, the keen eye and the judicious mind that knew that the sheriff would collapse before he fired his second shot. And his courtesy before the first shot was simply the surety of the man who knew that no matter what advantage he gave to his enemy, his own speed of hand would more than make up for it.
Gainor, reading their minds, paid no more heed to them. He went straight across the room and took the hand of Elizabeth.
“Dear Miss Cornish,” he said so that all could hear, “I congratulate you for the man you have given us in Terence Hollis.”
Vance, watching, saw the tears of pleasure brighten the eyes of his sister. After all, he groaned internally to himself, I have lost everything . . . more than everything. Terry will be dearer to her than ever before.
“You are very kind,” she said. “But now I must see Sheriff Minter and be sure that everything is done for him.”
It seemed that the party took this as a signal for dismissal. As she went across the room, there were a dozen hasty adieux. The breaking up of Terry’s birthday party began at that moment, and soon the guests were streaming toward the doors.
Vance and Elizabeth and Gainor went to the sheriff. He had been installed in a guest room. His eyes were closed, his arms outstretched. A thick, telltale bandage was wrapped about his breast. And Wu Chi, skillful in such matters from a long experience, was sliding about the room in his whispering slippers. The sheriff did not open his eyes when Elizabeth tried his pulse. It was faint, but steady.
He had been shot through the body and the lungs grazed, for, as he breathed, there was a faint bubble of blood that grew and swelled and burst on his lips at every breath. But he lived, and he would live unless there were an unnecessary change for the worse. They went softly out of the room again. Elizabeth was grave. Mr. Gainor took her hand.
“I think I know what people are saying now, and what they will say hereafter. If Terry’s father were any other than Hollis, this affair would soon be forgotten, except as a credit to him. But even as it is, he will live this matter down. I want to tell you again, Miss Cornish, that you have reason to be proud of him. He is the sort of man I should be proud to have in my own family. Madam, good bye. And if there is anything in which I can be of service to you or to Terence, call on me at any time and to any extent.”
And he went down the hall with a little swagger. Mr. Gainor felt that he had risen admirably to a great situation. As a matter of fact, he had.
Elizabeth turned to Vance. “I wish you’d find Terence,” she said, “and tell him that I’m waiting for him in the library.”
Chapter Fifteen
Vance went gloomily to the room of Terry and called him out. The boy was pale, but perfectly calm, and he looked older, much older.
“There was a great deal of talk,” said Vance—he must make doubly sure of Terence now. “And they even started a little lynching party. But we stopped all that. Gainor made a very nice little speech about you. And now Elizabeth is waiting for you in the library.�
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Terry bit his lip. “And she?” he asked anxiously.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Vance assured him. “She’ll probably read you a curtain lecture. But at heart she’s proud of you because of the way Gainor talked. You can’t do anything wrong in my sister’s eyes.”
Terry breathed a great sigh of relief. “I’ve been in a torment, just because I’ve wondered what she’d think. You know her opinion of gunfighting . . . she’s told me a thousand times. And now . . . on my birthday . . . I was afraid. . . .”
“Don’t give it a thought. Go down softly. Hang your head a little. Ask her to forgive you. . . .”
“But I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done. I’m really not, Uncle Vance. I’m afraid that I’d do it over again, under the same circumstances.”
“Of course you would. Of course you would, my boy. But you don’t have to blurt that out to Elizabeth, do you? Let her think it was the overwhelming passion of the moment . . . something like that. A woman likes to be appealed to, not defied. Particularly Elizabeth. Take my advice. She’ll open her arms to you after she’s been stern as the devil for a moment.”
The boy caught his hand and wrung it. “By the Lord, Uncle Vance,” he said, “I certainly appreciate this.”
“Tush, Terry, tush,” said Vance. “You’ll find that I’m with you and behind you in more ways than you’d ever guess.”
He received a grateful glance as they went down the broad stairs together. At the door to the library Vance turned away, but Elizabeth called to him and asked him in. He entered behind Terence Hollis, and found Elizabeth sitting in her father’s big chair under the window, looking extremely fragile and very erect and proud. Across her lap was a legal-looking document.
Vance knew instantly that it was the will she had made up in favor of Terence. He had been preparing himself for the worst, but at this his heart sank. He lowered himself into a chair. Terence had gone straight to Elizabeth.
“I know I’ve done a thing that will cut you deeply, Aunt Elizabeth,” he said. “I’m not going to ask you to see any justice on my side. I only want to ask you to forgive me, because . . .”
His voice, which had begun smoothly enough here, trailed away. Vance looked across at them in amazement. Elizabeth was staring straight at and through her protégé.
“Are you done, Terence?”
This time Vance was shocked into wide-eyed attention. The voice of Elizabeth was hard as iron. It brought a corresponding stiffening of Terence.
“I’m done,” he said, with a certain ring to his voice that Vance was glad to hear.
It brought a flush into the pale cheeks of Elizabeth.
“It is easy to see that you’re proud of what you have done, Terence.”
It had always been hard for Terry to submit to reproof. Now Vance could see the strong, tall body quiver with emotion.
“Yes,” he answered with sudden defiance, “I am proud. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I regret only one part of it.”
“And that?”
“That my bullet didn’t kill him.”
Elizabeth looked down and tapped the folded paper against her fingertips. Whether it was mere thoughtfulness or a desire to veil a profound emotion from Terence, her brother could not tell. But he knew that something of importance was in the air. He scented it as clearly as the smoke of a forest fire.
“I thought,” she said in her new and icy manner, “that would be your one regret.” She looked suddenly up at Terence. “Twenty-four years,” she said, “have passed since I took you into my life. At that time I was told that I was doing a rash thing, a dangerous thing . . . that before your twenty-fifth birthday the bad blood would out . . . that you would, in short, have shot a man. And the prophecy has come true. By an irony of chance it has happened on the very last day. And by another irony you picked your victim from among the guests under my roof.”
“Victim?” cried Terry hoarsely. “Victim, Aunt Elizabeth?”
“If you please,” she said quietly, “not that name again, Terence. I wish you to know exactly what I have done. Up to this time I have given you a place in my affections. I have tried to the best of my skill to bring you up with a fitting education. I have given you what little wisdom and advice I have to give. Today I had determined to do much more. I had a will made out . . . this is it in my hands . . . and by the terms of this will I made you my heir . . . the heir to the complete Cornish estate aside from a comfortable annuity to Vance.”
She looked him in the eye, ripped the will from end to end, and tossed the fragments into the fire. There was a sharp cry from Vance, who sprang to his feet. It was the thrill of an unexpected triumph, but his sister took it for protest.
“Yes, Vance,” she said, “I mean it. I know you’d rather let the will stand as it was. To tell you the truth, it has needed the events of the last few days to show me your real worth, your gentleness, your kindness, your generosity. And the same events have thrown a light on Terence.
“Vance, I haven’t used you well, but from now on I’m going to change. As for you, Terence, I don’t want you near me any longer than may be necessary. Understand that I expect to provide for you. I haven’t raised you merely to cast you down suddenly. I’m going to establish you in business, see that you are comfortable, supply you with an income that’s respectable, and then let you drift where you will.
“My own mind is made up about your end before you take a step across the threshold of my house. But I’m still going to give you every chance. I don’t want to throw you out suddenly, however. Take your time. Make up your mind what you want to do and where you are going. Take all the time you wish for such a conclusion. It’s important, and it needs time for such a decision. When that decision is made, go your way. I never wish to hear from you again. I want no letters, and I shall certainly refuse to see you.”
Every word she spoke seemed to be a heavier blow than the last, and Terence bowed under the accumulated weight. Vance could see the boy struggle, waver between fierce pride and desperate humiliation and sorrow. To Vance it was clear that the stiff pride of Elizabeth as she sat in the chair was a brittle strength and one vital appeal would break her to tears. But the boy did not see. Presently he straightened, bowed to her in the best Colby fashion, and turned on his heel. He went out of the room and left Vance and his sister facing one another, but not meeting each other’s glances.
“Elizabeth,” he said at last, faintly—he dared not persuade too much lest she take him at his word—“Elizabeth, you don’t mean it. It was twenty-four years ago that you passed your word to do this if things turned out as they have. Forget your promise. My dear, you’re still wrapped up in Terry, no matter what you have said. Let me go and call him back. Why should you torture yourself for the sake of your pride?”
He even rose, not too swiftly, and still with his eyes upon her. When she lifted her hand, he willingly sank back into his chair.
“You’re a very kind soul, Vance. I never knew it before. I’m appreciating it now almost too late. But what I have done shall stand.”
“But, my dear, the pain . . . is it worth . . . ?”
“It means that my life is a wreck and a ruin, Vance. But I’ll stand by what I’ve done. I won’t give way to the extent of a single scruple.”
And the long, bitter silence that was to last so many days at the Cornish Ranch began. And still they did not look into one another’s eyes. As for Vance, he did not wish to. He was seeing a bright future. Not long to wait; after this blow she would go swiftly to her grave. There was no doubt of that. Only one serious danger remained, and that was that Terry, during his remaining time on the ranch, would worm his way back into the affections of Elizabeth. He would have a hard task to keep that from happening, but, without seeming to oppose Terry, he would constantly work on the pride of Elizabeth and hold her to her word.
He had barely reached that conclusion when the door opened again. Terry stood before them in the old, loose, disreputable
clothes of a cowpuncher. The big sombrero swung in his hand. The heavy Colt dragged down in its holster over his right hip. His tanned face was drawn and stern.
“I won’t keep you more than a moment,” he said. “I’m leaving. And I’m leaving with nothing of yours. I’ve already taken too much. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forgive myself for taking your charity these twenty-four years. But you took me in when I was a baby. I didn’t have a choice. For what you’ve spent maybe I can pay you back one of these days, in money. But for all the time and . . . patience . . . you’ve spent on me, I can never repay you. I know that. At least here’s where I stop piling up a debt. These clothes and this gun come out of the money I made punching cows last year. Outside, I’ve got El Sangre saddled with a saddle I bought out of the same money. They’re my start in life . . . the clothes I’ve got on and the gun and the horse and the saddle. So I’m starting clean . . . Miss Cornish.”
Vance saw his sister wince under that name from the lips of Terry. But she did not speak.
“Good bye.” He turned to Vance and suddenly wrung his hand. “I think you’re straight, sir. I’ve gone twenty-four years without knowing what a fine sort you are. I know it now and I’ll never forget it.”
“Tush,” urged Vance. “Not a word. But you mustn’t leave like this, Terry. Put your pride in your pocket for a little while and let’s see if we can’t get things back on the old basis again.”
There was a breath of pause as Terence waited to hear Elizabeth urge the same thing. And Vance paused, also, with a caught breath of excitement. But Elizabeth did not speak. Her eye was as steady and her face as cold as ever.
“There’ll be no return,” said Terence sadly. “My trail is an out trail. Good bye again.”
And so he was gone across the room, swung through the door, a tall, agile, well-balanced figure of a man, and they heard his long, light step cross the hall and go out onto the verandah. A moment later there was a scuffing of the gravel, a snort, and then the beat of a horse galloping with mighty strides.
